Redemption
by Broken-Vow
Summary: The opportunities for growth always came at a painful cost. Anathema sequel.
1. Chapter 1

**I have returned! Thanks for all the reviews and favorites and stuff over the past little while. It still means a lot to me. I read all of them. It's so nice of you guys. **

**That being said, I'm super nervous about posting this. I didn't write anything at all during my hiatus, so I'm very out of practice. I can only hope that this isn't _too _bad and is somewhat bearable. Please feel free in giving suggestions/comments on how I can improve. **

**With this being a sequel, I don't think it'll be as intense or plot-driven as some of my other stories, just so you're aware. ****Also, as I began to develop and write, I went back and reread some of the more critical reviews of Anathema and the suggestions some readers had. There were complaints (a lot a **_**LOT**_** of complaints haha) about Christine. I'm not going to change her character or her personality, but I'll try to flesh her out a bit more and give her more depth. I'll also try to do better in some other aspects readers mentioned. **

**Again, thanks for the reviews/PMs that were left. A big thanks to edka88 for her continual support and encouragement and friendship, even when I wasn't writing anything. Thanks for the revision and reviews of the first couple rough drafts and for everything else, friend. :)**

**Enjoy and review!**

* * *

><p><em>Redemption<em>

The graveyard was small. Warm summer air filtered through the trees and illuminated it, and she looked around with wide eyes. There were small crosses, mostly, just like she saw in the small church. And the necklace. She put a hand to her neck and grasped it to ensure its safety. It was one thing she could not leave behind. It was important.

She stared at the cross in front of her, knowing each detail of it, each imperfection and curve. Then she looked up at her _Pappa_. He was holding her hand tightly, his head bowed and his eyes closed. She could see tears dripping down his cheeks. Why was he crying? He had told her today was a happy day. They were going to Paris. Where _Moder _had lived as a little girl.

"Are you sad?" she whispered. "_Pappa_?"

Gustave blinked and then smiled at her. "No, _ängel_. I am very happy. We are going to have so much fun in Paris. Right?"

She nodded quickly, her curls bobbing up and down wildly. Then he bent down and lifted her up. Having just turned ten, she was getting too big for him to pick up and carry around, but she still happily wrapped her spindly arms around his neck.

"And you're bringing your violin?" she said.

"Of course! We can sing every day if you want, Lotte." He crushed her into a hug, and she squealed and giggled girlishly before he set her back down. Then he took her hand again and led her away from the cemetery, wiping his face with his free hand.

"We'll sing every day, and then you'll be good enough to sing for the whole world!" Gustave exclaimed. "You have a special gift, Christine. One that comes from God. And the whole world should hear it!"

Visions and dreams flashed through her ten year-old mind...That of her in a beautiful blue dress with pretty shoes and makeup, singing for millions of people, and they would all love her. And _Pappa _would play his violin, and they would love him, too. He was the best violinist in the whole world, after all…

"_Christine_."

She blinked, startled, and came tumbling back to the present. The cemetery vanished, as did the warm Swedish countryside, and she looked to see that she was sitting at a table, yogurt dripping steadily into her lap.

"Ugh," she grunted in irritation, setting her spoon down hurriedly to wipe it up. "Sorry. I was kinda out of it for a sec, there…"

_He _was watching her, his bottom lip frowning in confusion. "You must hurry. I still have to warm you up before you leave."

She nodded. "I'll be right there."

He left, and she finished getting the yogurt off of her before sighing and rubbing her eyes. At least she was still wearing her pajamas and not her new dress.

The memories had come as she had thought of her audition and of her girlish dreams of fame and stardom and singing. So far it had been a bumpy road. But today she had a chance to try again.

Her stomach clenched at the thought. The audition. It sent some chills through her. Excitement and terror. Months and months of silence...It had been almost an entire year since she had sung for anyone but Erik. And she secretly felt if she failed at this as well, then...Figaro and _Elektra_ had made her question herself—she was questioning herself now more than ever—though both of those times outside forces had prevented her.

And yet...maybe it was all just a sign. Erik seemed confident, as always, that she would be fine, but hadn't he had the same attitude about Figaro and _Elektra_? And look what had happened there. What was worse, she had failed without even really trying. What if she actually tried this time and failed?

It wasn't as if she wasn't excited to sing; she was—overjoyed, actually, at the thought...but months of reflection and looking back over her short career made her realize what a huge disaster it had already turned out to be.

Quickly, she cleaned up her plate and rushed to the bathroom to shower, knowing that he was waiting for her her. He had been merciless, demanding, and strict during their last several lessons, and it had been grueling and sometimes overwhelming. He had said she was so close to breaking past where she had been before. At least that thought was encouraging.

She emerged and went over to the piano, pulling on a curl as she took her place. He was already seated, and they began their warm-ups. Christine sang dutifully, trying to convince herself that it was just another lesson, nothing too special. The accompaniment stopped suddenly, and she trailed off in confusion, looking at him.

"What is wrong?" he said. "You are cutting off your full voice!"

"Sorry," she said, clearing her throat, red beginning to bloom along her cheeks. "I'll try again."

He played, and she sang, but he stopped. Then they tried again. And again. And again.

She didn't know what he wanted. She was trying. But he was being picky right now.

"Stop!" he snapped. She winced, looking at the floor, avoiding his gaze. "Two days ago this was not a problem. What has happened?"

She shrugged and muttered, "Maybe I'm just...a little nervous today…"

"Nervous? Why should you be?"

"Erik, I haven't sung in...months!" she said feebly. "It's kinda scary, y'know...Remember the last couple times I tried to perform?"

His eyes narrowed. "Perhaps we have had a bit of bad luck," he admitted grudgingly. "But nothing will happen this time. I am confident that you shall sing well—so long as you relax and stop trying to bite down on your notes."

She took a deep breath and nodded. "Okay, you're right. It'll be fine. I'm just being silly."

But she could not suppress the fluttering in her stomach nor a nagging, negative voice that whispered horrible things to her about her past failures. She tried to brush it aside and focus.

For the next hour, she fussed over her outfit and hair, asking for his opinion as she dashed about the underground home, her hair half-done and one of her shoes in her hand.

"Does this look okay?" was her repeated question, though she didn't know why she was even asking. He would just glance at her and grunt noncommittally. She had smuggled a small hand mirror down and always tucked it away after using it, and she looked at it repeatedly, afraid that something was out of place and would embarrass her. But Erik said nothing, and she had to simply trust him that she didn't look too awful.

At last she settled on something and managed her hair, and she gathered up her things and stuck them in her bag. Erik opened the door to escort her to the exit. Like before, he was not going to go with her to her audition, and that made her more nervous than she would have liked to admit. She wanted him with her as she sang. But...she couldn't be a baby. She shook her head as they walked. She was a married woman now, not a child. Erik couldn't hold her hand through literally everything.

She tightened her grip on his fingers, her bare arms and legs a little chilly in the tunnels. Erik was quiet, his pace easy, and his breathing normal. At least _he _seemed calm.

They reached the small room where the door was, and he unlocked it. When he looked at her, Christine threw her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest, clinging to him.

"Are you sure you can't come with me?" she said, her voice trembling.

"My dear, it is nothing more than an audition," he said, sounding a little alarmed. "You will be marvelous."

She was silent for several long moments and then asked, "Will you...give me a good luck kiss at least?"

After a pause, he obliged, awkwardly pressing the bottom of his mask to her lips. Then she shook her head. "A real one," she said, looking up at him. "Without the mask. Please?" Maybe that sounded a little desperate...but she liked it when he kissed her and hoped that it would calm her.

"I shall ruin your pretty lipstick," he said.

"I can reapply," she said shortly. "Please?"

He watched her for a few seconds and then carefully pulled it off, and she leaned up eagerly. She put her arms around his neck and pulled herself closer, his lips thin and cool, though they always warmed a bit after touching hers. Just as she was beginning to become light-headed, he pulled away quickly, tying his mask back on and opening the door. Bright sunlight streamed in, blinding her.

"Hurry," he commanded. She gave him one last glance. He was waiting. Then she stepped into the outside world and exited the alleyway. It was early autumn, and she shivered just slightly as she hurried out onto the streets. She should've brought along a jacket.

After a few minutes, she was seated in the bus, and she pulled out her music to read over. A note fell out between the pages. Her heart fluttered a little as she recognized Erik's handwriting. Maybe a note of encouragement or love? But she looked and then smiled sadly. It was a list of things for her to remember during her song, short comments like _Glottal stop on fifteenth measure, Breath control before second cadenza, Listen for variance in truce keep chasing_

She blinked at the last phrase and then giggled. Obviously she was not _entirely _adept at deciphering his handwriting yet. Although it wasn't a love note, she still found it a bit sweet and tucked it carefully back into her bag. For a minute, she examined her lips in the window reflection, making sure her lipstick wasn't smeared. Then she leaned her head back against the seat, trying to control her nerves.

Through some miracle, she had persuaded Erik to pull his long fingers out of it all. Maybe the miracle was because she had asked it the day after they had married and he was still a little dizzy from everything that had happened, but...She was glad. There would be no manipulations, no threats, no nothing. Just...her and her talent. Erik was not at all happy about it, but he had promised her, and by the way he would sometimes glower or mutter about it, she had a feeling that he was keeping his promise. If she succeeded, this would show him that she did _not _need his so-called "connections" and that he didn't have to always threaten or bully people to get his way. He always told her she was beyond talented. So why not let her prove it to him?

The bus approached her stop, and she tucked everything away before hurrying off, breathing deeply to calm her nerves. It had been so long...She thought back on her audition at the Opera House. It felt like ages ago. Her father had still been alive then, some of his last days...Her throat clogged, and she cleared it quickly, shaking her head. She couldn't walk into her audition crying.

The studio was in the basement of a large building of other offices, and she rode the elevator down, looking at herself in the mirror to ensure that nothing was amiss. She looked pale, and she pinched her cheeks to try to give herself some color.

As soon she stepped into the studio, she gulped. A thin, graceful-looking man was waiting for her, and he looked her up and down, frowning.

"Christine Day?" he asked. She had kept her maiden name after marrying Erik, as he would not let her have Madeleine's—Reshetnikov. It saddened her a little that she wasn't able to change her name as a symbol of her becoming his, but the ring and his love had helped her enough to accept. That and the fact that she had worried over the spelling and correct pronunciation of the Russian.

She nodded in response to his question, not brave enough to correct the pronunciation. "Yeah," she squeaked. Then she blushed brightly.

"Follow me through here," he commanded, and she was led through a door into a large room with various curtains and bars and mirrors along the wall, obviously a multi-use room for rehearsing. A table was along the wall, and three other men sat behind it. She was led over to them, and she tried to smile and look confident, but she couldn't stop her hands from shaking. Her legs felt a little unsteady.

The thin man sat behind the table with them and joined the conversation; they were talking about soccer. Christine stood there and tried not to fidget, unsure if she should interrupt or not.

At long last, one of them yawned, looked at his watch, and said, "All right, then. Let's get started." Then he turned to look at her with a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes. She resisted shrinking back. They were all looking at her now, and she could see one of them frowning as he took her in.

"You're Christine Day, then?" one of them finally said.

"Yeah," she croaked, clearing her throat hastily, wishing her blush would go away. "Thanks...thanks for taking, um...the time to listen to me today."

They made no reply, save one of them held out his hand. She stared at it. Did he want a handshake?

"Your résumé," he said, sounding exasperated when he realized her confusion.

"Oh!" She blushed. "Sorry." Quickly, she dug it out of her bag and handed it to him, feeling as if her face were on fire.

"Did you bring enough copies for all of us?" the frowning one asked, folding his arms.

"Oh! I'm so sorry! I didn't even—I didn't even realize! I'm sorry." She was mortified.

He sighed loudly and then leaned over to look at the paper. They all examined it for a moment. Then one of them whispered something into his neighbor's ear. They both laughed. She hoped it was a joke about soccer.

Feeling humiliated, she had no choice but to stand there and wait for them to do or say something. Finally, one of them did.

"You were at the Opera House for months, but it looks here like you never actually sang in anything."

"Um," she began. Then she cleared her throat hastily and tried to sound professional. "It was...um, unusual circumstances. I was supposed to sing Barbarina in _The_ _Marriage of Figaro_. You know that one? Oh, sorry, I'm sure...you do. Anyway, there was that...fire. And the production was cancelled. So...yeah."

"But you were still employed after Figaro," another said. "And you still didn't do anything."

"Well," she said hastily. "I was cast to sing as a girl in _Elektra_, but...yeah. Again, circumstances. There were...personal problems. Not anything bad or anything! But I wasn't able to be there for that one, either. It was...yeah, just hard circumstances."

"The _circumstances_," one said, and the frowning one laughed behind his hand.

"Yes," she said shortly, wanting to either put her hands on her hips and stomp her foot or blush and sink in the floor.

"Well," said one, setting down her résumé. "Okay, then. Sing something for us. Just eight bars will do. Patrick will accompany you."

"Eight bars?" she questioned. "That's it?" That was nothing! She had a whole song. Which part was she to choose?

"That's it," he replied. "That's all we want."

"But…" She didn't continue. She had a feeling that they wouldn't listen to her protests. Hands still shaking, she pulled out her music and smoothed it out, trying to decide which eight bars. Aware that they were waiting for her and were already impatient enough, her eyes frantically scanned the song. Erik would have been much better suited to choose. He would have known which few measures to select, which ones would have shown her off best. But she had no idea...The trickier ones with the cadenza to impress them? But she needed the lead-ins to those parts to sing them confidently. Jumping right into them wasn't a good idea. And yet, what if the other parts bored them?

"Well?" came the question. "Are you singing for us or not?"

"Sorry!" she said, accidentally crushing the music a little as she jumped. "Sorry, I'm ready."

There was an upright piano a little way off, and the graceful, tall man made his way over to it. She handed him the crumpled music, indicated which measures to play, and went back in front of the table, smoothing her dress out and swallowing, trying to envision Erik there.

The music started suddenly, before she had looked to him to signal she was ready. Unprepared, she opened her mouth quickly, trying to get a breath in but unable to. She sang, and...it fell apart. Her lack of a proper first breath had already thrown her off-sync, and she tried desperately to get on top of the accompaniment, but she was failing miserably. She confused some of her lyrics, which flustered her into missing a few notes completely. Everything Erik had drilled into her seemed to fly completely out the window before she could even lift up a hand to try to grab it. There was no breath control, no diction, no fluidity to her voice, no life...Nothing.

And then it was all over, faster than she had expected, and she stood in disbelief. There was a general air of displeasure surrounding the men watching her. She stood there, hands clasped, her face burning. She vaguely wondered if they would agree to let her try again if she asked.

"Okay, Ms. Day," one of them said, handing out her résumé. "Thanks for your time."

"Th-thank you," she stuttered. "Um. Don't you...wanna keep that?"

"No, thanks," he said. "We have your number on file if we need anything."

She took it back and pushed it into her bag. Giving one last glance at them and the room, she exited and went back to the elevator. They had started talking about soccer again.

To her amazement, she didn't immediately break down sobbing. She emerged out into the bustling street, wishing that it would open and swallow her up.

She found her way over to her favorite park, and she sat on a bench by the pond, staring at the spot where she and her father had often performed. Those days with him...Singing and making music without all the pressure to excel, to compete for roles, to be _better_. She had sung for the pure joy of it then.

What would Erik say? He would be so angry. She was such a failure. Just one little audition...and she had botched it. He had been training her for weeks for this, had been merciless in his lessons, and she had let everything slide and had ruined it all. She wasn't afraid of him; but she was afraid of the disappointment he would have. After all that time! The weeks..._months _of training her, and she flubbed. She had been nervous, yes, but she hadn't actually expected it to go _that_ badly.

That was it, then. Her sign. She was meant to sing for Erik, but not for anyone else. She couldn't; every time she had tried, she had failed.

_The party after the gala_, her mind reminded her gently.

She shook her head in response, ignoring a group of teenagers who walked by and looked at her curiously. The party had been a fluke chance. It hadn't actually mattered. It wasn't a role, it wasn't an opera. It had been a three-minute ballad, and then she had been done. The shows, her roles, her chances, all ruined because of her.

It took a while before she felt up to standing. She began the walk back to the Opera House, trying to come up with something to say when he saw her. Walking gave her more time to think, though her feet started to hurt in her shoes after a little while. Performing had been her only goal for so long. What else was she supposed to do? Maybe she _could _go to school, like Raoul had always wanted. She could study music. Then she doubted that Erik would be thrilled by that choice. He would probably be insulted that she wanted to learn music from anyone other than him. Or she could study French and teach, like Raoul had suggested. But the thought of being a high school French teacher was...not exactly appealing. She doubted she was cut out for that kind of job. Perhaps she should simply return to a desk job, a boring one that would actually pay her like the one she had had before she returned to Erik. At least there she could keep to herself and do her work and contribute something to her small two-person family.

She caught sight of the iconic rooftop, and she stopped, staring at it for a moment until a woman crashed into her. She stumbled sideways as the woman tripped a little and then tossed back her long, dark hair in apparent annoyance.

"_Excuse _me!" the woman snapped, her voice accented. "Watch where you go!"

Christine started when she saw that it was Carlotta Guidicelli. The Spanish diva gave her an impatient glance and then marched off. She hadn't even recognized Christine.

Watching her for a moment and feeling another wave of shame and anger wash over her, Christine continued on her way as well, entering into the back alleyway and unlocking the door.

She had thought he would be waiting, but the little room was empty, and she shut the door carefully behind her, grabbing the flashlight and clicking it on. She stood for several long minutes but then sighed. It was time. Erik was for sure going to be worried by now, and it was probably better for her to tell him instead of making him wait to find out. But she still had no idea what to say. The walk down was several minutes...Maybe it would clear her head a little and she would finally figure it out.

She gripped the flashlight tightly and set off. However, just as she turned the corner, she bumped into something solid, and she leaped back, her heart hammering as she held the flashlight up.

Erik threw a hand out to shade his eyes, the beam blinding him. "Stop that," he said.

"Sorry," she said, lowering it hastily. "You startled me, is all. I thought you'd be at the house."

"You were gone far too long for just an audition."

"I went for a walk in the park afterward," she explained. "Sorry I didn't call."

"No matter now," he said. "Come. You will tell me of your audition."

He held out his hand, and she took it, dreading the moment when she would have to tell him. All the humiliation from the audition was pounding through her with each step they took. She was grateful at least that he was there and was leading her down so she didn't have to pay attention to the hallways and which way to go next.

She imagined the conversation. _How was the audition, my dear? Oh...it didn't go as well as I had hoped. _Then he would be so understanding and calm and tell her that everything would be okay…

A humorless smile stretched her lips. Yeah, right. She would be lucky if she got through the story without Erik making death threats.

After another minute or so of walking, he ushered her into the house, flipping on the lights and shutting the door behind them. He smoothed his hair back before turning to look at her. His eyes narrowed instantly as he examined her face.

"What's wrong?" he asked slowly, suspiciously.

"It's fine," she said. "I'm fine." Her voice trembled.

"Tell me," he commanded. Without warning, she burst into tears, as if they had been building up and just waiting for the catalyst.

"Oh, Erik!" she wailed. "It was awful! It was—it was horrible!"

"What?" he questioned. "Tell me!"

"The—the audition!" she sobbed. "I was—it was awful! _I _was awful! I'm so sorry! I just...I ruined it! And they…" She trailed off, crying noisily, unable to continue.

Still obviously unused to comforting, he pulled her over to the couch and pushed her down, holding out his handkerchief. She took it and put her face in her hands.

"What are the names?" he demanded. "What did they look like?"

She shook her head, still mopping up her face. He quickly went over to her bag and opened it, rummaging through the contents, pulling out a piece of paper. He scanned it, his eyes narrow and glowing. Then he put it into his pocket. She watched, trying to stop the tears.

"What are you d-doing?" she whispered, hiccoughing on a small sob.

"I will take care of this," he replied, going to pull on his gloves and coat.

"Where are you going?" she said, wiping at her eyes.

"Out."

Quickly, she stood. "You're not going to—going to hurt anyone, are you?" she said shrilly.

"Not anyone of consequence," he said lightly.

"S-stop!" she said. "No! I don't want you to d-do this!" Her tears had stopped at last. "Erik, don't you remember what you s-said to me?" She hiccoughed again. "If you k-killed them, you would hurt me."

"I will not kill them," he purred, as if trying to soothe her. "I shall merely...encourage them to be wiser in their selection." Maybe if Erik had had a different background, she wouldn't have suspected the "encouragement" would be physically harmful, but...the way he looked and the way he said it left little doubt in her mind.

Christine shook her head wildly, her carefully-pinned curls finally abandoning their position and falling over her shoulders. "Please, just don't go," she begged. "Don't do anything to them. They're just—they just...Please, Erik." She walked over to him and took his hand, trying to calm him as well as herself. "It's okay. It was just an audition."

"But they do not—" he began angrily.

"Who cares?" she interrupted, sniffling. "I don't care what they think."

"You're lying," he snapped.

A few more tears slipped down her cheeks. "Yeah," she said, her voice cracking. "But it's okay."

"It is _not_," he said. "They are complete idiots if they did not—"

"They are," she agreed, interrupting him again, saying anything she could think of to calm him down, even things she didn't believe herself. "Still, not much we c-can do, right?"

"On the contrary. There is a great deal I can do."

He was angry and obviously annoyed at her, and she closed her eyes, exhausted already. What was she to do? She couldn't physically stop him from doing anything.

"Erik?" she said, giving up. "I'm just...tired, okay? Please. Promise me that you won't do anything."

He looked at her for a moment. "I will do nothing life-endangering."

"Nothing at all. Don't go see them. Don't talk to them. Don't threaten them. Nothing. For me. Please?"

Glowering, he paused and then said shortly, "If it is what my Christine wishes."

She sighed deeply, relief flooding through her. Then she wiped at her eyes with the handkerchief and saw that it was smeared with black. "I guess I should clean myself up," she said. "I'll be right back."

In the bedroom, she exchanged the pale pink dress for soft clothes and some socks, and then she returned, pulling him to the sofa to sit next to him, feeling somewhat peaceful for the first time in...hours.

At his request, she told him what happened at her audition, ignoring the way he scoffed or clenched his fist occasionally. She tried to be objective and fair...Looking back, she _did _seem pretty useless. Months employed at the Opera House with nothing to show for it...A girl in a pink dress, nervous and timid, apologizing for everything, the exact opposite of a confident and strong performer. Ugh. She was so stupid sometimes.

"Are you okay?" she then asked after she had finished, looking up at him. "You're really quiet."

"Fine," he said, staring at the wall.

She smiled. "Thanks for listening," she said softly. It had helped a little that he had listened to her, and she took his hand, pressing her thumb to his ring, grateful that he was beside her. With another little sigh, she scooted closer to him and put her head on his bony shoulder. At least he was there for her. And she knew he always would be.


	2. Chapter 2

Erik didn't really talk about her audition afterward, and Christine was perfectly fine with that. It probably made him mad, so she didn't voluntarily bring it up, either. It just sort of slid by them, and she tried to forget about it.

But...she couldn't. She was reminded of it every time Erik taught her. It felt like every song whispered _failure _at her. There was a silent, unseen struggle within her now when she practiced. Their music was still ethereal, moving, and touching...But the spotlight and stage felt somewhat lost to her. She was suspicious that he was beginning to prep her for yet _another _disaster of an audition, and she was...less than enthused. He still held onto the vision of her fame and success, yet she said nothing, not wanting to argue with him.

But there was a discord now when he taught, an undercurrent of something unpleasant that had never been there before. It was unsettling. They bonded over the music more than anything, and now there was a rift in it.

She didn't want to tell him outright that she didn't want to perform anymore because she didn't want to see disappointment in his eyes. She could still remember that time in the practice room, where he had told her his plans with such excitement and enthusiasm. He had worked for this for...years now, and she didn't want to steal it away in the space of a minute. She didn't know what to do.

The music would never leave her, she knew. She would always be pulled to it and want to make it with him, but the idea of doing that in front of other people felt painful. The failures stung. Singing just for Erik would have to be enough.

Sighing a little as she thought about it all, she shifted in her seat and tried to focus her mind on the sermon that was being given. The priest was saying something about charity. Charity. That was something she could work on at the moment. She felt her brows furrow, and she resisted giving an angry little grunt. Erik had actually laughed at her as she had gotten ready that morning.

"Again?" he had said mockingly.

"Well, yeah," she said defensively, pulling on her shoes. "It's Sunday again. Church is on Sunday." She had paused, unsure, but then had said, "You still could come with me, you know…"

"Ah, my dear, if only sitting in a building for an hour could atone for a lifetime of evil..."

She looked up at him sharply. "Don't say that."

He had shrugged and had left the room, saying, "Enjoy your services."

The priest was reading a scripture from the Bible, and she tried to focus, but her mind kept drifting back to the small house underneath the Opera House, where Erik was. She was a little hurt that he had made fun of her attempts to be faithful, but she also knew he hadn't done it to hurt her specifically.

The congregation knelt, and she quickly did so as well, her attention still elsewhere.

She wasn't actually sure if Erik believed in God or not...She hoped so. But if he didn't, it wasn't as if she could blame him. If her past had been half as troubled as his, she would have lost all faith completely a long time ago. And there had been times...during those six months...when she hadn't been strong enough to believe anymore.

After the service was over, she jotted down the few scriptures that had been referenced and then gathered up her coat, wondering if she would be able to get Erik to eat something for dinner. Two days ago he had eaten almost half of his plate. She counted that as a major success.

"Christine!"

Turning, she saw the priest of the congregation smiling and walking toward her. He held out his hand, and she took it, momentarily surprised by the flesh and the warmth. It had been a while since she had touched anyone other than Erik.

"I'm glad to see that you're coming back," he said. "I was worried for a while."

"Heh, yeah," she said, smiling. "Things were kind of crazy. First with my dad...and then I got a new job." She held up her left hand. "Got married. It's been pretty hectic."

"Congratulations!" he said. Then he looked around the congregation. "Is your new husband here with you today?"

"No," she said, trying to keep the conversation light. "He's not exactly religious."

"I see." He patted her hand softly. "I'm sure your example and diligence will prove an inspiration to him. God works in mysterious ways."

She smiled again and thanked him for his words before pulling on her coat and leaving, her mind buzzing. God certainly did work in mysterious ways. It was still sometimes a little unbelievable to her that her life had ended up like this, a nobody girl from Sweden married to a tall, genius, deformed musician. That was certainly something she had never dreamed of as a little girl. Her dreams of her future husband had always been about the type of men that Raoul had been—patient and kind, caring, handsome, funny, and successful.

But everything had turned out pretty well, all things considered, she thought with another small smile touching her lips. She had no regrets in marrying Erik. So much had happened; so many good things as well as so many confusing and painful things. But she had never felt happier.

The autumn day was clear and crisp, and she enjoyed the colors and smells as she walked. If she was lucky, she would be able to get Erik to agree to a short walk with her in a week or so. The weather was getting cooler and it was getting darker sooner, which meant fewer people out during the evening, and the less people around, the more comfortable Erik was. They went on occasional drives, but she hadn't given up hope on the idea of them actually outside together.

She waited at a street light for a few minutes, twisting a curl and thinking. Her dream house was still in the process. He always assured her that he was looking whenever she asked, but she didn't want to push him, so she was being patient and trusting him. And if everything went well, they would be in a house before next summer. The thought was exciting.

There were a few people at the cemetery, and she made her way over to the little headstone. It was covered in leaves, and she brushed them away, tracing the letters with her finger. GUSTAVE DAAE. She quietly told him about her audition and her fears and worries. Of course, no one spoke back—no heavenly vision or whispering, but she had a feeling that he was listening anyway. Or maybe she was crazy.

She sat there for a while until a loud scream interrupted her reverie, and she jumped and looked around. A family had appeared, and the two children had run off to play, hollering loudly. The mother chased after them, looking embarrassed.

Taking that as her sign, she stood and said goodbye, promising to visit next week and brushing away a few tears that lingered.

The house was warm, and she entered it gratefully. Erik was in his chair with a sketch pad, and his gaze went to her as soon as she walked in.

"Hi," she said, smiling and pulling off her coat.

"And how was it, my little zealot?" he asked.

Her smile slowly fell from her lips. "That's not very nice."

"It isn't," he agreed, setting aside his sketch pad and standing. "I fear that I am not a very nice individual."

"Well, you're in luck, because I learned about charity today, so I'm going to be _charitable _and forgive you for being so mean." She draped her coat over the couch. "But you should at least try to be nicer to me sometimes."

"I should," he said without pause, surprising her. "You are a very good girl. A good wife. I am simply a boor."

"No, you're not," she said, softening. "But in answer to your first question, it was a nice service. I liked it."

He tilted his head slightly and gave her an examining look, as if she was something he was trying to dissect. Figure out. He had given it to her before. It made her uncomfortable most of the time. She shifted uneasily.

"I am very pleased that marriage to me has not crushed your devotion," he then said.

The frown returned. "Why would you even—? You know what, never mind. I just had a nice time today. That was all. But now I'm hungry, so I'm going to make dinner."

She went to the kitchen and stood for a moment. Sometimes he was impossible. Shaking her head, she pulled out some pots and pans and began to cook, again hoping that he would eat at least a little bit of what she was making. His comment came back to her. _A good wife_. It made her blush a little.

Being a wife was...nice. She liked it. Even though sometimes the chores got a little monotonous, she always reminded herself that she was _lucky _to have this. And she was lucky that she had Erik at all.

Being _Erik's _wife...That was a new world for her. The first six weeks of marriage had been a whirlwind. A happy, confusing, frightening, crazy...whirlwind. There were so many things she didn't understand and so many things she wished she could make him understand. But...maybe that was why marriage was for a lifetime. They had a long time to get to know each other better and understand things.

The mundane things seemed to startle her a little at first. Erik had always been mysterious to her, and his home was even more so. A house _underneath _the Opera House! But as she had lived with him, she had realized that it was just a house, and it needed care like any other house. So she did wife...things. She cooked and washed dishes and did laundry. She made the bed and picked up his stuff from the floor and scrubbed the bathroom and threw away uneaten leftovers, just as she would do in any other house. She had no idea what she had been expecting after they married. Maybe something romantic and magical? Erik was good at magic tricks, but she was beginning to realize that he couldn't just magic away things that simply needed to be done.

"You clean too much," he had commented once as she was wiping down the kitchen countertop.

"No, you've just lived as a bachelor too long," she had replied, smiling.

"Does it displease you?" he then asked. "Doing...this? You should not have to do that."

"No, I like it!" she assured him hurriedly. "I mean...well, not _always_. But honestly, Erik, I would be doing this wherever I lived, so it's no big deal. And I'm glad that I can do it for you."

"Do not scrub floors for me," he said. "You are not my slave or servant."

"Isn't that what a wife is?" she joked, trying to tease and make him laugh, but he had looked very serious and offended at the remark.

"I'm just kidding," she had said quickly. "Just a joke. I know, Erik. I won't if I don't want to. I know."

Christine put a lid over the food, smiling a little at the memory. Maybe living as Erik's wife wasn't as sweepingly-romantic as she had once imagined...but in his own weird way, Erik was kind of romantic himself.

Humming softly, she stepped away from the oven and stretched.

"Erik?" she called, pulling down two plates. "Dinner's ready."

There was no reply, and she huffed and walked into the main room. He was standing by the piano, absorbed in something, and she went over and placed a hand on his shoulder, saying, "Erik? Did you hear me?"

"What?" he said shortly. "I'm working."

"Dinner's ready," she repeated. "Come on."

Obviously reluctant, he nevertheless followed her and sat at the table, watching silently as she set the plate before him.

"You can't waste that," she said, filling up her own plate. "It's special."

"What is it?"

Grateful he had willingly taken the bait, she smiled. "It's called _Janssons Frestelse_. It's something my dad always liked to eat. I wanted you to try it." She eyed the potatoes and sauces and meat. "I probably should've added some vegetables or something to make it healthy, but whatever."

Laughing a little, she began to eat, the traditional food filling her with memories and warm feelings of nostalgia. Christine had been too young to learn how to cook while she had lived in Sweden, but Gustave had certainly remembered several of his favorite dishes, and with the aid of a few cookbooks and her father's memory, she had begun to teach herself while they were living in Paris. And as she had grown older and they moved to the States, she got much more practice, as Gustave had stopped cooking. He hadn't understood the measurement systems or the ingredients there.

"We used to eat this around Easter a lot," she commented. "My dad always said that my mom had a secret ingredient that made it amazing, but she never told him." She smiled sadly. "Too bad we'll never find out now."

He was silent, staring at the food, pushing it around slowly with his fork.

She paused, watching. "Aren't you going to try any?"

"I am not hungry," he said.

Christine resisted rolling her eyes. He said that nearly every night.

There was silence for another few more minutes. Then she set her fork down and looked back at him.

"Erik, do you have any special foods that you like?" she asked. "I could make some of it for you. Well, I don't know how to make any Russian food, but I could try. Or—wait, you grew up in France. I could make you _Pot au Feu _or _Cassoulet_. Or...I dunno. Whatever you want. If I don't know how, I can learn." She tapped her fingers on the table lightly and smiled at him encouragingly. "Did your mom—er, I mean Madeleine—ever make you anything that you liked?"

"No," he said. "She was hardly a '_homemaker_,' my dear."

"So did you guys just have take out every night or something?" she said, grinning. "C'mon, there has to be _something_."

"I said no," he replied curtly, looking at her seriously. "There was nothing but stale bread and cheese." He paused and ran his hand over his hair, looking deep in thought. "Though I remember sometimes she would give me chocolate bars. She said it was my birthday."

"Wait, when _is _your birthday, then?" she asked eagerly.

He shrugged. "I've no idea."

"Oh." She reached over and put a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry about Madeleine."

"You say that so often. You shouldn't be."

She went back to her food, thinking. After another few minutes, she lowered her fork again and looked at him to say slyly, "Or maybe some _Iranian _food that you really like…"

He pinned her with a glare. "_Christine_." It was said in his '_you-are-annoying-me' _tone.

She huffed a sigh, conceding defeat for the evening. "Fine."

After sitting and playing with his food for another five minutes, he thanked her and excused himself, leaving her frowning at the leftovers and disappointed that he hadn't even tried a single bite.

He was back at the piano when she emerged from the kitchen, and she went over to him again, setting her elbows on the lid and watching him jot down notes and music.

"Are you composing?" she asked.

"Yes," he said after a moment of silence.

She smiled. "It's been a while."

"It has," he agreed.

He would play the piano and violin for her on request now, though singing for her alway took a bit more persuasion. It was good to see him composing again, working, keeping his mind busy on...wholesome activities.

"When are you going to play your music for me?" she said, examining the complicated-looking notes he was penning. "You never have, you know."

"When you are ready," he said, looking up at her.

"And I'm not now?" she asked, feeling just a little affronted. What more was there for her to do? She learned from him, sang for him, _loved _him...

"Not yet," he said.

"When will I be ready?"

"I don't know," he said, going back to the piece.

"Oh, that's helpful," she said sarcastically, though she laughed.

"But I will play you Liszt if you sit quietly."

Somewhat reluctantly, she did as he said, though her eyes drifted closed as the opening notes began to float toward her. It was a beautiful piece, and she let it soothe her and calm her. There were no problems when there was music; nothing except the melody and the feeling that overwhelmed her. Erik seemed to instill a life into the instrument he played that she hadn't thought possible. It was as if the piano was expressing itself, like a real, living thing.

The last notes were fading, and when they were completely gone, she exhaled softly, her senses seeming to tingle with the lingering, silent overtones.

"That was beautiful," she said softly. "How in the world are you so talented?"

"No. My talents pale in comparison to what lies inside that pretty throat of yours," he said, his gaze dropping to her larynx.

"Thanks," she said, trying to laugh.

"I am not trying to flatter you," he said stonily. "You still do not understand the potential you have. You were born for this, my dear. Born for greatness."

"Heh," she half-laughed, tugging on some curls. Could she really tell him that that wasn't true? She had always wanted to sing onstage. A couple months ago, such comments would have normally made her nervous with excitement, but now they felt like reminders of her failure. For a moment, she could almost hear Mr. Gabriel's voice in her head. "_You're not going to be playing Barbarina_." That had hurt. Not being able to stay for _Elektra _had also been painful. And...those men at her audition. It was like they were laughing at her still.

Christine had had such thoughts after Figaro, but she had pushed them aside at Erik's insistence. After two more failures, they had resurfaced, more powerful than ever before.

Wanting to brush aside the subject of her "greatness," she stood, yawning and pushing her hair behind her shoulders.

"Thanks for playing for me. I think I'm gonna go to bed now, though. I'm tired."

"Yes, you should," he agreed, standing as well. "You look somewhat fatigued."

"Thanks for the compliment," she joked. "But I'm not _fatigued_, Erik. I'm just tired."

"Even so, it would do you some good to rest," he said steadily.

"Yes, Maestro," she said, rolling her eyes a little and stepping closer to him to grasp his hand. Then she paused and asked hesitantly, "Are going to come soon?"

"Perhaps later," he said dismissively.

"Okay," she said after a few silent moments. "Goodnight, then."

She leaned up, and he obliged and kissed her. Before she even had a chance to try to take his mask off, he pulled away, and she tried not to feel disappointed.

"Sleep well," he said.

"Goodnight," she said again, heading to the bedroom. She glanced over at him once more, but he was already gone and the door by the piano was shut.

She closed the bedroom door and stood there for a few moments, staring at the room, her gaze lingering on the empty bed. With a long sigh, she began her routine, pulling on pajamas and heading to the bathroom.

As she brushed her teeth and stared at the bare wall, she tried not to feel sad or embarrassed, but she failed at both and then got upset that she failed. They were _married_. It shouldn't embarrass her anymore. But it still did.

And yet...she was confused and hurt by him. He came to her once a week. Once a week, and that was it. Like clockwork. They hadn't even been married for three months. Of course she wasn't expecting them to live in the bedroom, but...after the first day, he had retreated like a monk and never told her why.

It was embarrassing for her, too. Maybe she did something he didn't like. But she had no idea what, and he never said anything to her about it. Or maybe he didn't think she was pretty. That was a mortifying thought. She knew she wasn't a model; far from it, with her wide hips and stomach that wasn't as flat as she wished. And it was especially painful because she had never thought of Erik as shallow. It wasn't as if he had _grounds _to even be shallow in the first place.

Not for the first time, the idea came to her that she should go on a diet and exercise a bit more. But how was she to exercise? She felt as if traipsing up and down those stairs and tunnels multiple times a week drained her enough as it was. Yet a diet would be doable; it wasn't as if Erik was demanding her for food, anyway. He could probably even give her a few tips if she asked…

She splashed some water on her face and rubbed her skin vigorously, trying not to let the thoughts creep in, but they did. They always came, like something chewing at her, some infection that she couldn't seem to kill.

After drying her face and flipping off the light, she went back into the room and laid down in the cool bed, shivering and quickly pulling the blankets up, squeezing her eyes shut.

Maybe he just simply...didn't like it. With her. The possibility was humiliating.

It all kind of seemed a little messed up. She pressed her fingertips into her eyes, creating a few explosions of color on her eyelids. No one had told her about these kind of problems. No one had warned her that her new husband would only sleep with her once a week and would never take off his clothes...and still sometimes wear his mask.

That part hurt more than anything else. It wasn't every week, but it was often enough to worry her, sometimes even driving her to tears afterward (though she always waited until he was gone). She wished there was a self-help book or some internet article that would tell her what to do. It wasn't as if she had a girlfriend to call up on Thursday mornings.

_Hey, it's Christine. Erik wore his mask last night again and didn't even stay in the room afterward. What do you think that means? _

She sighed to herself and yawned, settling into the soft pillows. The annoying thing was, everything else was pretty good. Except her singing, of course. They were still having difficulties about that. But...regular, day-to-day life was being good to them. He seemed to be more relaxed around her, less prone to suspect or threaten or growl. He was less reluctant to tell her things when she asked. There was a nice rhythm to the unimportant things. But she wanted to get that good rhythm going in the other things.

Then she blushed brightly. _No pun intended_, she thought to herself, giggling insanely like a teenager.

She lay there for what felt like at least an hour, just to see if he would come to bed. Usually he entered when she was already asleep. She would wake in the middle of the night for the bathroom or a drink of water, and he would be sleeping quietly beside her. He was always more than welcome there, and she would snuggle him sleepily. But sometimes he didn't come at all, and she would wake knowing by the feeling of the bed that she had been alone the entire night.

With these troubled thoughts, she drifted off to sleep, confused and hurt and wondering.

* * *

><p>A few days later, Erik disappeared for a couple of hours during the afternoon, giving her an opportunity to work on her gift for him.<p>

She wasn't sure how Erik would react to celebrating Christmas, but she wasn't going to go another year without celebrating, and she wanted a chance to give him something special. It was turning out to be a lot harder than she thought.

She sat at the table, staring at the textbook, the words running together. There was something about the declension of nouns...Then she was skimming over the genitive case...and she didn't even begin to understand the charts.

Russian was hard. Or...maybe it was just learning a new language that was hard. She had always prided herself just a little on being trilingual, something of a rarity in America, and had thought she had a natural talent for picking up languages. But now she realized that was all just her own thinking. French and Swedish had been spoken to her since birth, and she had started learning English as soon as she had entered school. Living there for eight years had helped her sound like a native as well.

But actually learning this language, staring at the grammar rules and trying to figure out the weird-looking alphabet and struggling with vocabulary...It was something she hadn't anticipated. She wanted to learn as much as she could over the next month or two before Christmas. Afterward Erik could help her. He was an amazing teacher.

Still, she wanted to impress him and also show how much she cared about him, so she ploughed along, rubbing her forehead and forcing herself to stay awake as she, again, tried to memorize the alphabet.

The letters started to run together, and she dozed over them for a few minutes before snapping herself awake, rubbing at her eyes and forcing herself to straighten up. She thought about getting herself a snack to help her concentrate and reward herself, but then she remembered her new diet, and so she sat there grumpily instead, her arms folded.

Just how many languages did Erik speak? Russian, French, English...Whatever they spoke in Iran. Iranian? Whatever. At least four. And she had a suspicion that there were more, if his plethora of foreign-language books was anything to go by.

After another few minutes, she huffed on a sigh and shut the book loudly, glaring at it. Stupid book. Stupid Russian. Maybe she should just wait a couple more months and ask Erik to teach her.

Then she groaned and opened it again, flipping back to the beginning. It would mean more if he saw that she had actually put in an effort.

She stared dully at the same paragraph for another few minutes and slowly tried to pronounce a couple of the words. Just what was she going to say to him? It would probably be best to memorize a few sentences, just in case she blanked.

A while later, after unsuccessfully trying to construct a sentence, she closed the book and stuck her tongue out at it. Then she hid it away carefully to make sure he wouldn't find it, feeling a little frustrated with herself. She started dinner, chanting the alphabet under her breath, but by the third time through she got confused and started mixing it up. Finally, she threw her hands in the air.

"No more Russian for today," she said grumpily, putting down a saucepan of water onto the stove with more force than she meant to. Water sloshed out of it and onto her, and she groaned.

"I hate you," she said to the pot in short, irritated Swedish, simply to prove to it that she could speak something other than English.

Erik returned just as she started to worry about him, and she ran over to the door.

"You're home!" she exclaimed, hugging him. "I missed you while you were out! Well, I always do. Anyway, dinner's ready!"

She tried to pull him over to the table, but he didn't move.

"I have work to do," he said. "It cannot wait."

"But…" She tried hard not to pout or be whiny or pestering. "But you always sit with me!"

"Not tonight," he said evenly. Then he laughed at her expression and sad sigh. "There's no need for dramatics. It will not take long."

He went to his office and closed the door, and she returned to the table, staring at the food laid out. If she would have known he wasn't going to be there, she would've made something light and simple for herself. She wondered what his "work" was and where he had disappeared to for the afternoon. He had left with a big folder of papers. Maybe they were more...'records' from his office that he had forgotten about. She hoped that he was getting rid of everything.

After eating a few bites (she _was _hungry), she dished up a plate and carried it over to the closed door, standing in front of it and shifting her weight nervously. Carefully, she pressed her ear to the door. He was speaking, but the words were unintelligible.

She knocked timidly, and she counted four seconds before he slowly opened the door, a sleek phone pressed down to his shoulder to muffle the sound. He looked at her suspiciously. Quickly, she held up the plate.

"I brought you some brain food," she explained. "That way you can eat while you work!"

After another moment, he took it from her. "Thank you," he said, though he had a questioning tone in his voice. He gave her one last curious look and shut the door quietly.

She watched the door for a moment and then went back to wash the dishes, humming quietly and trying not to feel too upset. It was fine; Erik was fine. They were fine. She loved him, and he loved her. He wasn't the Phantom anymore. He was just Erik. Just Erik. But...it always worried her a little when he disappeared into his office for long periods of time.

After finishing the dishes, she returned to the main room and was trying to decide how to best distract herself until Erik was done when he entered as well.

"Done already?" she clarified in surprise.

He nodded. "I told you it would not take long."

"Oh, good. What were you doing?"

"Arranging another audition for you," he replied, and she felt her heart skip a couple beats. She wished that she hadn't asked.

"Oh," she said again.

"Come," he said, walking over to the piano. "We have only three weeks."

"Three weeks?" she echoed, her stomach beginning to twist. "Will I be ready by then?"

"Of course," he said. "There is no need for you to learn something new. We will use your previous audition song and simply polish you up a bit."

"But…" she said quietly, following him to the piano. _I don't want to. _

He waited, but nothing came. "Yes?" he said, frowning.

She shook her head, her eyes downcast. "Nothing."

"Something does not please you," he said suspiciously. "What is it?"

"No, I'm fine. Just...nervous. Again."

He continued to watch her, his eyes a little narrowed.

"Would you like to learn a new song, perhaps?" he offered. "Do you not enjoy this one?"

"No, it's beautiful," she assured him hurriedly. "It's fine. Everything's fine."

He stared at her for another moment, but then he put his long hands on the keys and played a succession of chords to begin. As she sang, a wave of sadness stole over her heart. How would she tell him that their dream for her was no longer going to become a reality?

* * *

><p><strong>Don't worry; I know they speak Persian in Iran. :) Thanks for the reviews!<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

A beautiful melody was floating gently through the room. It was a simple little folk tune, one that he had played for her before, and she hummed along quietly as she did the laundry, trying to let herself enjoy it but expecting...It was suddenly cut off with a sharp squeal as he quickly dragged the bow across the strings. She jumped yet again and resisted glaring at him. He'd been doing that for the past twenty minutes. Playing and then stopping...retuning, adjusting the bow tension, rosining it, fiddling with the strings, examining the body.

She had given him her father's violin at last, and he was experimenting with it for the first time. She tried not to flinch or snap at him—or worse, snatch it out of his hands, but he wasn't playing it the way she had thought he would. She glanced over to him again, pretending to be busy with laundry. He had the violin up at eye level and was peering through the bridge. Then he tapped the back of it with two of his long fingers. She hoped the violin was holding up under his scrutiny. Of course he wouldn't damage or break it...but still, she winced when he tucked it back under his chin and dragged the bow across the E string with a lot more force than necessary.

He played something else, a complicated, quick piece, his fingers moving expertly across the neck. Then he cut himself off with another loud screech of the strings. He set the violin back in its case and sat down on the piano bench, staring at it, his fingertips coming together in a gesture of serious thought.

She absentmindedly folded a pair of her jeans and set them aside. After a minute of silence, she nervously asked, "Everything okay over there?"

"It will not open for me," he said, still staring.

"What do you mean?" _Did he want to break it open?_ She tried not to panic.

"I cannot connect with it," he replied. "It feels different. I cannot play it when it's so withdrawn."

She was confused. Could violins be _withdrawn_?

"It sounded nice to me," she offered, wanting to be encouraging. "When you were actually playing something, I mean."

He shook his head, standing and closing the case firmly. "I shall try again later. No more tonight."

"Is something wrong with it?" she said worriedly.

"No. Nothing. It is in fine condition." He put the case away and then turned his attention to his own violin, fine-tuning the G string and rosining his own bow. She sat patiently, hoping he would play something. However, the violin never found its way under his chin. He rested it in his narrow lap, absentmindedly plucking the strings in a slow, unconscious sort of way. Then he suddenly looked at her.

"Would you like to go out, wife?"

"What?" She was caught off-guard and then nodded. "Yeah, of course! I'd love to."

His mouth relaxed a bit and his gaze softened. For a moment, he hesitated, and then he said carefully, "We could...walk. Outside. If you so desired."

She gaped. He had always turned down her requests. He would take her out on a drive if she wanted, but she hadn't yet been successful in persuading him to walk with her. "Are you serious?" she said breathlessly. "Of course! But...I mean, are you sure? You don't have to."

"Get your coat, and we will leave."

Without another word, she did as he said, happily abandoning the laundry. It had taken a couple months, but finally he was going to go walking with her. All of her other hopes seemed so much more doable; the house, Erik's music being heard...It was all going to start with one little evening stroll.

By the time they emerged, the sun had set completely. The fall air had some sting in it. It wasn't freezing, but she was grateful for her coat and zipped it up tightly.

They went to the park where she and her father had always played. As they walked, she slipped her hand in his, grateful when he replied by stroking the back of her hand with his long thumb. Thankfully, the pathways they wandered were empty. Traffic rumbled in the distance, and she breathed deeply, enjoying the chilly fresh air and smell of autumn.

He still had the faintest trace of a limp. Had she not known him before his injury, she probably never would have noticed. However, she could feel it as he held her hand, the very slight imbalance in his steps. She wondered if he would ever fully recover. It had been months, yet there were still some minor physical side effects. But...he had been _shot_. Most people died when that happened to them. She was suddenly grateful all he had escaped with was a small limp.

"Thanks for walking with me," she murmured, smiling up at him. "It means a lot to me."

"It is my pleasure to see my wife happy," he replied, and her smile grew.

The air held the distinct feel of approaching winter, and her mind wandered to the gift she was working on for him. She had found a song a couple days ago and was trying to work out the pronunciation. It was all a lot more than she had bargained for, but she was determined. She hummed a line under her breath.

"You sang here with your father often," Erik suddenly remarked.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah," she replied. "Dad really liked this park. There were always a lot of people during the summer. And it's nice, too. I think it reminded him of Europe a little bit, with the parks all around the big cities and stuff."

"Did you ever wish to return?" he asked.

"To Europe?" she said. "Well, yeah. Mostly for Dad. He wanted to go back to Sweden so bad...We could just never...get there. Y'know. Financially. Um, anyway. And last year I was starting to make plans." She gave him a meaningful glance. "When I thought you were...not there. I was going to go back to Sweden myself. It would've taken me years to save up, though."

"Would you still wish to go?"

She paused, thinking wistfully of her little Swedish town and beautiful Paris. "Together?" she asked hopefully.

He replied, his voice soft, "Perhaps we will think about such things at a future time."

She nodded enthusiastically, shocked and pleased that he would even suggest something like that. Dreams raced through her once again; traveling, singing, making music, enjoying their normal home. And if Erik was even considering it as the _faintest _possibility…Hope again warmed her.

They turned onto a path, and she tried to ignore a shiver that was making its way through her. The night had turned windy and a lot colder, but she was enjoying herself and their time too much to suggest going back.

They continued, and she reminisced happily. "This was the park where you found me on Christmas Eve! Remember?"

"I do."

"Wow," she said. "It feels like forever ago. That was such a bad time. I had no idea what to do or where to go." She paused. "Actually, Erik, what were you even doing out here?" Then she felt her heart clench a bit; did she really want to know? He had still been the Phantom then...

"Walking," he said.

"That's it?" she said, trying not to sound surprised or suspicious.

"Yes. I needed air. It was late and snowing and a holiday. I had assumed I would be alone."

"Good thing you weren't," she said, grinning. He glanced down to her, and she could see his thin mouth twitch.

Some minutes later, the wind picked up even more, and she tried to be discreet and shuffle closer to him for warmth, but he noticed.

"We should return," he said instantly, stopping to watch her shiver. "I was mistaken in my idea of coming tonight. It's too cold for you."

"We've only been outside a few minutes!" she protested. "I'm not some wimpy, fragile little girl. A breeze doesn't bother me." A blast of icy wind suddenly shot through the trees, and she turned her face into his shoulder to hide from it. "It's not too bad," she said to his sleeve.

"Come," he said shortly, making it apparent that there was no room to argue. "You'll fall ill if we stay out." He shrugged off his coat and pulled it over her. She tried to refuse.

"What will you wear? It's cold!"

"Nonsense." He tugged it tighter, tightening the collar around her throat.

She tried to pull it away so she could breathe easier, but he would not give up. "Keep your throat warm," he commanded, a phrase that now made her roll her eyes.

They walked back, and she felt increasingly-grateful for his long, fine coat as the wind picked up even more. She jogged just a little to keep up with his long legs. As they approached the Opera House, she glanced around the deserted, dark streets. It had been a nice, uneventful evening, which made her hopeful for more. _Stupid wind_, she thought with a scowl as he opened the door for her.

"Too bad about the weather," she said as they entered the underground house. She rubbed her arms and thought of the bed and its thick blankets with a little longing. "Maybe we can try again in a couple days when it's not so bad out...?" She handed him his coat, watching him with wide eyes.

"We shall see," he said simply, taking the coat to hang up. That was good enough for her. A half-commitment to resurface with her was a big deal for him, and she had to remind herself of that and be patient and accept the small steps he was willing to make.

For a little while, she was tempted to use the calm, close atmosphere to tell him that she wasn't going to audition, but when she sat next to him and he wrapped a long arm around her to pull her close and press kisses to her forehead, she couldn't bring herself to do it, enjoying the moment far too much to upset him. Instead she snuggled closer to him and tried to push the worry out of her mind. But it always returned sooner or later.

The audition was looming over her, inevitable, like some big threatening storm. She hated talking about it but tried to pretend not to, as Erik was bringing it up nearly every day now. And she hated it especially because she knew Erik had used his "connections" to arrange it all. So she wouldn't fail at this one, but only because he would force them to accept her. She couldn't have a whole career being a sham of him threatening people behind the scenes.

Again, she tried to think of other things she could do instead of perform. She wanted to start working again, to help support them both and to have back that proud feeling of earning her own money.

One week before the audition, she was dozing over a novel on the couch while he sat in the armchair on his laptop. She knew that each day narrowed the time, cut off another chance she had to simply tell him and get it over with. She was just torturing herself by dragging it out.

"Erik?" she said quietly, watching him.

"Yes?"

"How do you know the people I'm gonna audition for?"

His gaze went to her then. "I do not know them."

She paused, reaching up to twirl a curl around her finger. "So how did you get the audition?"

"Reyer," he said.

"Mr. Reyer?" she clarified in surprise, setting the book aside. "From the Opera House?"

"Yes," Erik said. "He has an impressive network, you know...One can hardly be in a position like his without knowing the right people. And he does."

"And you know him," she said. Erik nodded once. She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking. "Is that how you got my last audition?"

"No," came the reply. "It was unfortunate timing on your part, my dear. You convinced me to leave it well enough alone when that was one I had arranged through a less-dependable source. But no matter. This is a better role for you, anyway."

She rubbed her eyes, tired and wishing that real life didn't have to be so complicated sometimes. "How do you know Mr. Reyer?" She was nervous that he was threatening him as well. Even though she had always been a little intimidated by Mr. Reyer, she had respected him and his opinion.

Erik hesitated and shut his laptop. "It's not what you are thinking," he then said when he had seen her expression. "I am simply a...consultant."

"Um...a what? What do you mean?"

"I consult him," Erik replied. "He asks me things. About the productions. I revise orchestrations for him when needed, and I advise him in regards to casting and the ensemble."

Christine sat up a little. That was certainly not what she had been expecting, but it...was good. Really good.

"So you guys are like...business partners?" she tried carefully.

"No," he said, sounding insulted. "He is not my...'partner.' I tell him what to do."

"That doesn't sound like consulting to me," she said.

Erik scoffed. "He listens to me because he knows that I'm right. I am an integral part of the success of this company. Reyer is intelligent enough to see that. Now, enough. You have your answer. Be satisfied."

She didn't sleep well that night, her mind turning over and over as she tried to think of ways to tell him. It was going to be hard to make him see that she was right. He was so stubborn. But if he would let her simply explain to him...maybe he would realize that she was right.

Christine sighed, rolling over restlessly. There was no way Erik would understand. But he had to at least accept it. If he could. It wasn't like he could _make _her sing.

She shivered. He could.

But she would be miserable. And he didn't want her to be miserable! He loved her and wanted her to be happy. That's what he said. She reached out and put a hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat and wishing that she could know what to say and how to make him understand. Carefully, so as not to wake him up, she scooted closer and wrapped an arm around him, trying to fall asleep, but failure kept swirling around in her head. _You're not going to be playing Barbarina_...The haughty disapproval of those men...Being snatched away from her chance to perform in _Elektra_...She pushed her face into his hard, bony shoulder and cried. All she had wanted to do was sing. She had felt it was her...calling in life, if there existed such a thing. So why did it have to end up this way?

Four days before the audition, she was still trying to figure out what to say. The past few lessons had gone badly. Yesterday, Erik had simply left the house entirely for two whole hours, obviously not wanting to upset her. She had used the solitude to cry for a few minutes but then had wiped away her tears and told herself to stop acting like a baby.

She was washing dishes in the kitchen, her mind far from the warm, soapy water. Erik hadn't spoken to her all morning; she could tell he was frustrated and confused, not angry, which was a relief...but it was about to break soon. The tension was running high, and Erik could only be stretched so far.

As she was rewashing a bowl, she sensed him, and she glanced over her shoulder quickly, forcing a smile. There was silence for a little while, and she prickled under his gaze, trying hard to focus on making sure that the outside of the bowl was particularly clean.

"Your lesson," he said abruptly.

"What?"

"Your lesson. We must have it."

"Okay," she said, going back to the dishes, her stomach clenching. "I'll come when I'm done with these."

"No. Now."

She frowned, gripping the bowl tightly. "I said when I'm done."

"But _I _said now," he growled. "Come."

"No," she said, terror sweeping through her. This was it. She knew it. She put the bowl down and dried her shaking hands, trying to collect herself and gather her courage. It was time to put the endless, jumbled, silent rehearsals into play. She turned to face him. "I don't want to."

He stared as if she had just said something disgusting. Then he blinked. "Don't be childish. Come."

"I'm not being childish," she shot back, folding her arms. "I don't want to sing."

"You do not have time for the luxury of pouting," he snapped. "Your audition is in four days, and you are a disaster."

"I'm not auditioning," she said, feeling her heart stop beating and her stomach disappear. She had at last uttered the words. Erik looked...bewildered.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not auditioning," she repeated, sounding a lot calmer than she felt. "I don't want to."

"Is this…" He was struggling for words, and he took a few steps into the kitchen, reaching out a hand to steady himself against the counter. "Are you...mocking me? Is this some...stupid joke?"

"No," she said. "I'm serious, Erik. I don't...I can't. I can't audition."

"You can," he insisted. "You _will_."

"I won't."

"You WILL!" he shouted suddenly, and she jumped, stumbling back a few steps and bumping into the sink. He momentarily pressed his pale hands to his face, apparently gathering himself. Then he continued, somewhat calmer but still tense: "Do you think I will simply let all of our work go to waste? Do you think I will let you pass this opportunity? You will sing!"

"I _won't_, okay?" she shot back, her voice shrill and trembling. "I can't do it! I'm not..._limitless_, Erik." Tears began to well up, and she wiped them away angrily. She had wanted to do this without tears. But her voice shook as she said, "I ruined my audition. I—I ruined everything! I can't…" She gasped a little on a sob. "I can't do anything right." She stared at the floor in humiliation.

He studied her. "You believe this is your fault?" he demanded.

"Figaro was a disaster," she said miserably. "And then _Elektra_...I shouldn't have gone with Mr. Khan. And my audition! I was a mess. They laughed at me. I don't even want to try anymore! It's...I know I've disappointed you. I've messed everything up. All of our work. I know. And...I'm just...so sorry."

A long moment of silence followed. She could feel him staring at her, and she wanted to hide behind something. It was embarrassing, humiliating...disappointing to her as well that she hadn't been able to do it.

"These things..." he began, trailing off a bit as he examined her. "These things were no fault of yours. Figaro was nothing more than the workings of that snake, Guidicelli. _Elektra…_" He paused. "You did nothing wrong. You were ready. As for your audition, we shall simply have to work a bit harder, won't we? You are destined for the stage, Christine, and—"

"Am I?" she challenged.

"Yes," he said shortly. "You cannot let these experiences keep you from fulfilling your true calling. I will not allow you to hide and wither away down here. You cannot fail, not with talent like yours. Christine…" His voice suddenly grew soft, and she looked at him quickly, tears still in her eyes. He continued: "I cannot see you fade into obscurity. It would destroy me...You were born for the stage, for music. The idea of you never fulfilling that calling, of wasting away your talents and hiding them...It is a sad vision, indeed. Angels would weep over such an abomination."

She watched him, wondering if he realized at all what he was actually saying, that those words applied more to him than anything else.

"You have spent far too long trying to hide," he said, taking a few steps toward her. "You cannot run from your destiny, Christine."

"I'm not trying to 'run from it,'" she replied heatedly. "People just keep ripping it up and throwing it back in my face, and I'm sick of it."

"Yes, well, life is a bit unkind sometimes," he said coldly, and she was hurt for a moment at his abrupt change of tone before realizing that he was probably thinking about his own life and the kind of destiny that it had given him. Then he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Your next audition will be a success. I promise you that."

"Only because you'll force them to hire me," she muttered sulkily, folding her arms and looking away from him.

"I have already explained this to you!" he said impatiently. "You need only one role—_one, _you silly child—and the world will be at your feet. My dear." He put his large hands on her arms. The touch seemed to calm him, and it certainly calmed her. She was able to look back to him, wishing that he had his mask off. He continued: "I don't _force _them to hire you. I arrange your auditions, and that is all."

"But what about the Opera House?" she said. "You forced them to give me roles."

He glanced sideways, looking a little guilty. "Yes...Well. I did not force them to hire you in the beginning. For your roles, I was simply...impatient, perhaps. And eager for your success."

She stood there, watching him, her heart pounding heavily in her chest. Could she actually do it? Try again? Almost against her will, a small bit of hope flared up again in her heart, a whispered remembrance of her lifelong dreams.

"I'm scared," she finally admitted quietly, her voice shaking. "What if I can't do it?"

"Such a thought has never once crossed my mind," he said. "Don't you believe me when I tell you of your talent?"

"I do," she said. "But...no one else seems to want it."

"They will. They _do_. They simply aren't aware of it yet. Don't you remember the gala? They were clamoring for you. You were beyond sublime."

"But…" She sighed and then leaned forward, resting her forehead on him, sniffling a little. The fight had left, but she still had so many doubts and fears and worries...

"You don't hurt anyone, do you?" she then whispered. "I couldn't stand that, Erik, I couldn't."

"No," he said. "No one. Reyer arranged this audition for you by simply asking for a favor. He is quite the little fan, you know."

"Really?" she said, looking back up to him.

"Of course," he said, reaching up to pull a few curls back behind her ears. She closed her eyes momentarily, always enjoying the sensation of his long fingers on her face. "He is intelligent enough to see true genius. I've hurt no one. I've simply asked for a favor. Simply something to get you started, like I said. After this, you will not need 'favors.'" He looked at her closely. "Do you believe me?"

She held his gaze for a few moments and saw only earnestness; no anger or frustration or that sneering mockery that he sometimes held onto. The expression in his eyes calmed her more than anything, comforted her enough to let go of some of the humiliation and anger she had been feeling, and she was able to nod slowly.

To her surprise, she saw him smile briefly before giving her an awkward kiss and saying,

"The world awaits you, my Christine."


	4. Chapter 4

**Just to clear up some apparent confusion: like stated in the summary, this story is a **_**sequel**_**. I'm sorry if that was unclear to some. This fic is a sequel to a story I wrote a couple years ago called Anathema. If you don't want to read that one, I'm sure you'll be able to follow along okay, but I do recommend you read it, as this sequel references a lot of events from Anathema. As always, thank you so much for the reviews. Please enjoy.**

* * *

><p>Her lungs were burning, and there was a painful stitch in her side, but Christine pressed on, the chilly early winter air stinging her cheeks and nose. The day was clear and bright and cold, and she pulled her coat tighter around herself, coughing a little at the air that was drying out her throat.<p>

Fingers numb and shaking, she ran over to the door in the alleyway and unlocked it, entering into the dark building and grabbing the flashlight. She nearly tripped and fell on her face in her haste, but luckily she was able to catch herself.

Her heart was bursting, and she couldn't stop smiling. She could only imagine what he would say.

At last, she got to the house, and she threw the door open. "Erik!" she cried, panting heavily from her run.

He stepped into the front room from the piano. "You're back," he said.

Tossing the flashlight aside, she ran to him and practically jumped on him. He gave a pained, short shout of surprise and took a few steps back to brace himself. She then remembered his leg and hastily pulled away.

"Sorry!" she said. "Did I hurt you?"

He shook his head, but his hand went to his leg, and she bit her lip.

"It's no matter," he said when she tried to apologize again. "It is nothing. Tell me how your audition went."

"Oh! Well...I did it!" she exclaimed happily, bouncing up and down on her toes in excitement. "I did it! I sang so well. I know I did! It was amazing!"

His bottom lip stretched into something of a smile. "Of course it was. You are sublime."

Unable to help herself, she stepped closer to him and leaned up on tiptoe to press a few kisses to his lower lip, her heart still racing and the elation from her success washing over her. And he was the one who had pushed her to succeed.

To her surprise, he pulled away and frowned at her. "Are you unwell?" he then asked, sounding concerned.

"What? No, I'm fine," she said, pushing her hair behind her shoulders.

"You don't look well," he said, looking at her closely. "You are pale. Yet flushed."

"I was—I hurried to get down here to tell you," she panted. "I guess maybe I'm a little beat, that's all."

"Sit," he said, taking her arm and guiding her over to the couch. She did so gratefully, as she _was _feeling just a little unsteady from the run and the adrenaline. "Rest here," he continued. "Take off your shoes and coat. Wait for a moment."

She did as he said, leaning back against the couch and sighing. The audition and the run back and the kiss had put her in a weird mood, and she tried to bring herself back down to earth and orient herself.

He returned with a blanket and a cup of tea, and he tucked the blanket around her before handing her the drink. She smiled in response.

"Thanks," she murmured.

"Now," he said, sitting beside her again. "Tell me, my dear. How was your audition?"

"Amazing," she replied, closing her eyes at the thought. "Well...yeah. I was really nervous at first, obviously. But it went so well."

She had arrived at the location with fear and determination and anxiety and excitement in her heart. It was a smaller theater, one with one of those big vertical signs in the front of it. She had heard of the place but had never been, and she went through the doors with a little trepidation, trying hard to mentally pep talk some confidence in herself. Erik said she could do it. She had the talent. She just needed to believe that she did.

There was a small table in the front lobby, and a heavyset woman sat behind it with a bored expression on her face.

"Auditions?" she said dully.

Christine nodded and approached, trying to look confident.

"Name," the woman said, looking down at a list.

"Christine Daae."

The woman found her name on the list, checked it off, and pointed to a set of doors. "Through there, down to the right. Second door on the left."

"Thank you."

The woman didn't even glance up at her again, and Christine felt her stomach somersault as she pushed her way through the door and into a richly-carpeted hallway. Following the woman's instructions, she turned right and headed for the second door on the left. Before entering, she paused and said a silent prayer to help her and help calm her nerves. Then she pulled the door open and stepped through.

It was a brightly-lit room with a few haphazard rows of chairs. Four other girls sat there, looking at her. There was another table, and three people sat behind it. One of them, a middle-aged man with dirty blond hair, looked at her.

"Here to audition, sweetheart?" he said, examining her not unkindly.

She nodded.

He pointed to the chairs by the other girls. "Go ahead and have a seat. We'll get started in a sec."

Trying not to look nervous, she walked over and slowly sat down, forcing a smile at the girls seated next to her. They smiled back. One of them, skinny with glowing skin and beautiful red hair, leaned over and whispered, "I love your dress."

"Oh, thanks," she said, glancing down at the frock-like purple dress Erik had given to her a couple days ago. She had told him that she was just going to wear her red dress again, but he had ignored her and had given it to her anyway.

Before she could say anything else in response, the blond-haired man walked over to them. All the other girls sat up in rapt attention. Christine followed suit, beginning to feel intimidated. They were all so beautiful...and looked seasoned and confident and yet still young and fresh. She wondered how she looked, what kind of impression she gave.

"Thanks for coming to sing for us today, girls," the man said. "I'm Richard Hoffmann. I'll be directing this show. We're just gonna make this easy for you and ask you to sing sixteen bars each. Nice and simple. Who'd like to go first?"

"I would," said one of them immediately, standing. She had long, shiny blonde hair, and Christine watched it swish behind her back as she made her way up near the piano and handed over her music and resume.

It was interesting to watch other auditions, as Christine had never really seen them before. The blonde girl looked very confident and sang a pretty aria that Erik had taught Christine early on in their lessons. While her voice was good, Christine could hear just a little bit of strain for the higher notes, something she never would have noticed two years ago.

Two other girls went before Christine built up enough nerve to volunteer herself. The second girl, the redhead, was extremely talented, and Christine had felt too afraid to try to follow her powerhouse audition. However, the third girl had fumbled for a couple notes near the beginning and looked a little embarrassed as she sat down. Christine felt a pang of empathy; she knew that feeling all too well.

She handed over the music and her resume and took her place, taking a deep breath and trying her best to squash all the nerves and nagging doubts.

"You're Christine Daae?" Mr. Hoffmann then asked, looking up at her from the resume.

"Yes," she said slowly. Was that a bad thing again?

"So you're the girl Reyer sent," he said, smiling a little. "He gave you a pretty glowing review."

"Oh." She tried to smile back. "That's...really nice of him."

"Well, then. Let's see if you live up to it." He leaned back in his chair expectantly.

The introduction started, and she took a deep breath, recalling Erik's words.

_I'm scared. What if I can't do it?_

_Such a thought has never once crossed my mind._

The music came to her, like a sweeping, rushing tidal wave, and she closed her eyes for a moment and then gave herself over to it, letting it take her, engulf her, drown her in its loving embrace. There was oxygen when there was music, and she sang, remembering that feeling she had had that first time, with Erik in that run-down little theater, when she had...what had he said? _Given her soul to him_. Maybe in a way she had. He was music.

The sixteen bars went by quickly, and she let the last note ring a little longer than normal. Applause followed, and she looked to see the director smiling widely at her. The other girls were clapping as well, but two of them were looking at her in an annoyed, unfriendly way. The redhead, however, was smiling widely.

"Thanks so much, Christine," Mr. Hoffmann said, leaning forward across the table. "It was something special to listen to you today."

Christine nodded and went to sit back down, stunned yet again. But this time, her disbelief was one of joy. She had done it! She had performed well! No one had laughed at her...She had listened to Erik and had tried again for her dream. The feeling was wonderful.

The last girl got up and looked to be nearly in tears. Christine suddenly felt bad for her. _Maybe I should have gone last_. The girl sang dutifully, trying her best, but afterward, the applause was considerably shorter and less enthused than it had been for Christine. Christine clapped hard and tried to ignore the blonde girl who shot her an annoyed glance.

The three people behind the table whispered together for a minute before Mr. Hoffmann stood again. He went back and handed Christine and the blonde girl a large envelope.

"Those contain your contracts and your rehearsal schedule, should you two choose to accept," he said. "Bring back the signed contract by next Thursday. Thanks so much to you other girls for coming out. We'll let you know if we have anything opening up for you."

Christine clutched the envelope tightly. That was it? She had gotten the part? She glanced to the blonde girl who was sliding the envelope in her large red purse with a smile. The girl who had sung last left the room quickly, tears in her eyes. The other three watched her go as well and then picked up their bags and shuffled out.

Quickly, she gathered up her things and hurried out behind them, not wanting to be left alone with the three people behind the table.

The lobby was empty now, the heavyset woman and the table gone, and Christine saw that the redheaded girl was standing by the doors, texting someone and looking disappointed. Nervous and unsure, Christine nevertheless approached her.

"Uh...hi," she said stupidly. Then she blushed. The redhead glanced over at her.

"Hi," was her response.

"Heh. Um, yeah. Anyway." Her blush intensified. Why couldn't she just talk to others like a normal person? "I just...wanted to tell you. I thought you sounded amazing in there. Like...really amazing. You're really talented."

"Thanks," the redhead said, smiling a little. "That means a lot, coming from you. I'm just glad I wasn't that last one who had to sing after you. Poor girl."

"Yeah," Christine said. "Actually, I was too afraid to go after _you_."

The girl laughed. "Really? Wow. Are you sure you're not just saying this to try to make me feel better?"

"No, I'm serious," Christine said earnestly. "I thought you were the best one there. I can't believe they didn't pick you."

"Yeah, well…" The girl frowned deeply. "There's no way they would pick me over you. And that blonde girl is Catherine Abramson."

"Who?"

"Her dad's some big, fancy, rich executive producer...something. Anyway, point is, she's got the name. So they were gonna pick her from the start. But it's okay." The redhead smiled again. "I have another audition next week. At least you won't be there. And I mean that in the nicest way possible."

Christine laughed. "Well, good luck. And...really. You were the best one in there."

"Thanks again. That's really nice of you to say." She tilted her head slightly, her smile softening. "I'm Diane."

"Christine."

They had then parted, and as she stepped out and into the chilly day, Christine had suddenly felt the rush of it overwhelm her again. _She had done it_. Her steps had picked up, and she had rushed home, eager to tell him.

Erik was practically _purring _with pleasure by the end of her story. He pulled the envelope out of her bag and read over the contract, nodding occasionally.

"You will be perfect," he said. "This is just the beginning."

Christine sighed and set the empty cup to the side before shuffling over to snuggle him. Erik wasn't exactly comfortable or _cuddly_, but he never pushed her away when she was feeling particularly touchy. She pulled the blanket over him as well and put her head on his bony chest. His heart beat steadily underneath her ear.

"I wish I could've done it without your connections," she admitted. "I feel bad."

"The audition was the only thing I arranged. As soon as they heard your talent, you were selected."

"Yeah maybe, but that redhead girl," she said sadly. "Diane. She was so good. But then that blonde girl got it instead just because her dad's rich, and Diane was better. It's not fair."

"No," he commented vaguely, his bony fingers pulling on her curls. "It isn't."

"I wish I could do something about it," she said. He chuckled.

"Considering becoming a social activist, eh?" he said. She huffed and was silent, indignant.

"My dear little wife, you cannot right all the wrongs in the world," he then said.

"That doesn't mean I shouldn't try to help," she insisted.

He briefly ran his fingers over her forehead and cheeks. "Sweet girl," he murmured.

Christine actually snorted a little. "Yeah, _okay_..." she said, yawning. She curled deeper into him, trying to get comfortable on his ribcage. He grunted as she adjusted herself, and she murmured an apology for hurting him before finding something comfortable for the both of them. Erik was stroking her curls, and that, combined with the beat of his heart, lulled her into a deep, refreshing sleep.

* * *

><p>Rehearsals were going to start up right after Christmas. Christine would be playing a girl in an opera called <em>Prométhée<em>. She wasn't familiar with it at all, but she was excited, and not even Erik's criticisms of the work lessened her enthusiasm. A few days afterward, they began their work on it. Although the music was contemporary like _Elektra _had been, she began to enjoy the work they were putting into it and looked forward to rehearsals. Perhaps a new friend awaited her there, like Meg had been in the Opera House. This time, she told herself, she would do better and be a better friend. There was so much to look forward to, and she worked hard to embrace the role that she had been given, still feeling lucky that her dream was coming true.

December had arrived with cold, sudden bursts of snow and chilly winds that drove her indoors, and as the stores and shops around the city had begun to hang lights and wreaths and garland around their displays, Christine had looked on longingly.

She was at first hesitant when she began to smuggle down Christmas decorations. Erik had actually thrown out a happy little porcelain snowman she had tried to put on his piano. _Disgusting_, he had said with a snarl. That had almost convinced her to stop. But then she had furtively put a few small evergreen tree statues on the bookshelf and they remained there, which encouraged her. He would allow it, it seemed...but only in small doses. And probably nothing too commercialized and bright, like the snowman had been.

So she had put a few candles on the table in the kitchen, baked a gingerbread house, placed a nativity set in the front room (it surprised her a little when it remained), and looked forlornly at the tree-less room. It took her a solid week of begging, and it had included verbal pleas, big, sad eyes, hints, kisses, promises, lots of touches and cuddling, and even a few tears before he had relented.

It was now standing in the corner, and she had thanked him over and over again, squealing with delight and excitement.

She was sitting on the floor next to it, trying hard to untangle a string of Christmas lights. They were being stubborn. Erik was pointedly ignoring the whole scene, reading a book in his chair instead. She didn't even try to ask if he wanted to join her. The tree was enough of a Christmas miracle from him.

Last year, Christmas had slipped by without any celebration on her part. There had been no friends, and definitely no family. The only semi-festive thing she could drag herself to do was to flip on the radio to some carols. They had made her cry. Definitely a low point, she decided.

"Can you believe it's been two whole years?" she then said.

"Two years?" he echoed from his chair.

"Since we first met!" she exclaimed. "Well...not exactly 'met.' But still. Two years."

He was silent.

"Wow, it's so crazy to think back on it," she continued, tugging at the cord. She worked for a little while longer, at last wrangling something manageable out of the lights, and she wrapped them around the tiny tree. Knowing that he would probably get upset if she asked him about any special holiday traditions he had had as a child, she instead chatted to him absentmindedly about her own.

"Since I was the only child, I was obviously always St. Lucia," she said, pulling out little round ornaments and hanging them up. "I could never wait to put up the tree, though, so we always set it up December thirteenth, too, instead of waiting until Christmas Eve. Dad said Mom always insisted on going to Mass at midnight, so that's why I was there that night in the park. I was going to go to Mass, but then...Well, anyway. It was a bad night. But Dad always liked the Christmas Masses. Maybe we could go together this year! I didn't go last year. Christmas last year kinda just didn't happen...heh. But I'm excited for this year! I'm going to make something really special for Christmas Eve, and you have to eat it all because I'm going to work really hard on it."

He continued in his silence and didn't seem annoyed by her babbling, so she chattered until the tree was decorated. It was fake, as he had absolutely refused to drag a real pine tree down, but with the lights and little ornaments, it turned out nice.

"There!" she said at last, stepping back to admire it. "It looks pretty. It's so small and cute! But I think it's perfect. Don't you think so?"

He grunted, not even glancing over, and she laughed and fell back onto the couch.

"That was fun," she said, leaning into the armrest. She closed her eyes for a moment and then said, "Are you hungry?"

Predictably, his response was negative.

"Good," she said with a little sigh. "I'm too tired to make dinner." Then she suddenly yawned widely, pressing a hand over her mouth. "Geez, I'm so tired. What's wrong with me? I slept fine last night…"

"A change of the seasons, most likely," Erik said. "And you have not been eating well lately."

"Hmm? Oh." He had noticed her diet. Clumsily and lamely, she tried to make up an excuse: "Well...it's not fun...just cooking for one person. So I'm just eating stuff that's easy and fast...'cause you won't eat with me. Besides," she said. "You're the last person who should be accusing someone of not eating enough."

"I am perfectly healthy," he said.

She resisted rolling her eyes and instead closed them, wanting him to come sit next to her, but he didn't move. She yawned again, thinking of her gift for him.

She wondered if Erik would get her anything. Probably. Maybe. She didn't know. But she resolved not to be hurt if it slipped his mind. It wasn't as if he had had anyone with whom to exchange presents or to celebrate. No family or friends...

"Erik," she said suddenly, opening her eyes in thought. "What's Nadir Khan doing?"

"Why should I know that?" he said.

"Because you two are friends," she said. "And now I'm worried about him. We haven't seen him in...months."

"What bliss," he said.

She laughed a little, unable to help herself, and then said, "But seriously. We should invite him over sometime. We owe him a lot."

"A hole in my leg and chest, of course," he said shortly, pressing a hand over the one near his stomach.

"...Sorry," she whispered after a moment of silence. He waved his hand as if brushing it aside, and she continued, "If you don't want Mr. Khan over, we won't have him over. I just thought...I mean, he was getting you medicine and stuff. And you said you were kinda friends...Like that one time I came down early and he was here. You two seemed to be friends then..."

He tapped his fingers on the armrest, his book on his knee, watching her with puzzled eyes.

After a few moments, he sighed. "Very well. If it will please you, he may come."

"Really?" she said. "Okay! I mean, it doesn't have to be right away. Maybe after Christmas sometime." She paused again. "And...and we'll make sure he's unarmed, okay?"

To her complete surprise, Erik laughed. And she did as well.


	5. Chapter 5

All in all, she was very proud of him. He endured the glitzy, silly traditions and customs of Christmas Eve with a lot more patience than she thought he had. She could sense when she needed to cut back, though, like when she tried to convince him to sing a few carols with her. But overall, he let her do what she wished, as long as she didn't force him into anything that he considered too much. He even ate some of the food she made. She was also able to persuade him to try eggnog for the first time. Somewhat surprisingly, Gustave had liked the drink after being introduced to it, but Erik gagged and refused to eat anything else for the rest of the night, claiming that she was poisoning him.

The night caused her to reflect a little. Christmas had always been Gustave's favorite holiday, though as Christine grew older, she had begun to see that tinge of sadness, of regret in his eye whenever the holiday drew nearer. The holiday had probably been very special for him and his wife, full of love and closeness and the warmth that marriage provided.

To her own sadness, Erik would not attend Mass with her, but she managed to have a nice time anyway. It was, after all, a celebration of the birth of the Savior and not of her marriage to Erik, but still...It would have been nice if he had been there. By the time she arrived home, it was late and she was exhausted, and although she wanted to stay up and be with him, she fell asleep the moment she sat down.

Christmas morning came, cold and quiet, and she happily bounded out of bed, pulling on her favorite soft red sweater. Judging by the way he kept stroking her arm and running a hand down her back, he enjoyed it as well.

And to her small surprise, he had gifts for her. A _lot _of gifts. She felt guilty and spoiled as she opened them all. There were books, dresses, jewelry, shoes, bags, fancy creams and perfumes...He even got her a sleek-looking tablet. She tried to protest most of the presents.

"My wife deserves everything," he stated shortly, placing another box in her lap.

"I'm twenty-two years old," she said as she pulled out a pearl necklace. "Not six."

All of his expensive presents made her feel a little embarrassed about handing hers over.

"Here," she muttered, staring at the lumpy package that was wrapped in gaudy green paper. "Um...yeah. This is for you."

He unwrapped it carefully, and she noticed he did his best not to tear the shiny green paper. None of his gifts for her had been wrapped, which made her feel childish that she had wrapped his. She bit her lip and watched as he pulled it out. It was a pair of charcoal gray pajamas she had seen a couple weeks ago.

Unnerved by his silence, she tugged on a few curls and said hastily, "If you don't like them, I can take them back. You don't have to have them. I thought...I've never really seen you in pajamas or anything, but if you don't want them, I—"

"No," he interrupted. "No, it is…" He ran a hand over them. "It is wonderful. Thank you, my dear."

He seemed genuinely touched by the gift. Christine then thought she understood a little. It wasn't so much that they were pajamas. It was the gift itself, the fact that he had gotten something. She suddenly wished she had bought a hundred more things, just so she could get the quiet, genuine reaction again and again.

"I was tempted to get you some bright pink silk ones," she teased. "With little hearts all over and lace on the sleeves…"

"Wretched girl," he grumbled, though his gaze was soft and affectionate as he looked at her.

He then allowed her to pull off his mask, and she kissed him, long and warm, as a thanks for the gifts and a thanks for accepting her offering.

"Next year you don't have to get me so much," she said. "Only a couple things. And I do have something else for you, actually." She stood quickly. "Just stay there."

She walked over to the piano, twisting another curl, trying not to feel nervous. Carefully, she searched out the note. It was a B. She counted up from middle C, blushing a little as Erik watched her silently. When she found it, she plunked it loudly and then turned to him, forcing a nervous smile. Her voice wavering just slightly, she began to sing.

After a moment, he sat up straighter, and a quick, unspoken communication passed between them. He recognized the Russian, and his mouth tightened. She momentarily faltered at his expression, knowing now that he knew, but then he leaned back, a silent gesture for her to continue. She did so, stumbling over some of the more difficult words, not feeling as confident as she would have liked but trying.

After she ended, she took in another deep breath and said in hesitant, awful Russian, "I love you." _Ya tebya lyublyu. _It came out sounding more like _Yah tayba looblue_, but she hoped he at least understood.

A few seconds passed, and then she sighed deeply to release her nerves, beginning to giggle. "How did I do?" she asked in English. "I know it wasn't very good. I'm still learning! It took me forever to memorize that song." She approached him, still smiling. "But I can say lots of other things now, too, like...like _Good morning _or _Please _or...um, I can say _Help me_ as well." She laughed again. "Okay, not so great, I get it. But now that you know, you can help me!"

"What?"

"Hold on." She ran to the bedroom and pulled out her Russian textbook. When she returned, she sat down next to him and showed it to him, flipping it open.

"It's really hard for me," she said. "But I'm trying, at least."

"Trying what, exactly?" he said.

"Um, well—to learn Russian, of course!" she said, looking at a pretty picture of a castle-like building and tapping it.

"Why would you want to learn Russian?" he asked, and she saw his gaze lingering on the picture.

"I'm learning Russian because _you're _Russian, silly!" she said. "You speak Russian!"

"I speak many languages you do not," he said shortly.

"Yeah, but…" She looked at him, realization beginning to dawn. "You're mad, aren't you?"

"Of course not," he said. "My dear, if you desire another language, learn Italian. Or perhaps German. Those would benefit your singing, and I could still tutor you. My conversational skills have probably rusted a bit, but I could teach you basic grammar and pronunciation."

"But I want to learn Russian!" she said. "Because...I mean, that's your native language. I think it could help us, y'know...get closer."

"No," he snapped suddenly, snatching the book out of her hands and tossing it onto the floor. "You will not waste your time. It is a useless language."

"But—"

"I said _no_!" he said shrilly, and he stood abruptly and left the house, ignoring her call and slamming the door behind him, not even grabbing his coat and gloves.

She was able to hold them back for a while, but after an hour passed and he still hadn't returned, the tears came, and she cried in confusion and hurt. Why was she always messing up with him? She felt like everything she tried to do hurt him in some way. What was she to do? Why didn't she understand yet?

Maybe he had given her signs that he didn't want her to learn Russian, but she hadn't seen them. Or maybe he thought that she was trying to hurt him by doing so. He hadn't ever spoken Russian to her, except that one word in the tunnels months ago, but he had been drunk. So...what was that supposed to mean?

He was gone for what felt like forever, and she cleaned up the house to give her hands something to do, storing away her presents, now feeling awful handling them all. After that, she retreated to the bedroom where she climbed into the cool, empty bed. _Merry Christmas_.

Was it all supposed to hurt so much and be this hard?

She dozed for a while, feeling exhausted already but unwilling to fall asleep before he got back. Hunger came, but she remained in the bed, thinking, turning things over in her head.

Finally, she heard the door click open, and she sat up quickly. He was back. A small pain in her chest loosened at that.

"Erik?" she whispered. "Are you okay?'

"...Yes."

"You were gone a long time. I was worried."

He was silent, and she felt tears come back to her eyes.

"I won't learn Russian," she choked out. "I'm so sorry. I...I didn't—"

"Hush," he interrupted. He entered the bedroom and shut the door. Trembling, fearing rejection, she held out her hand. After watching her for another moment, he accepted, taking off his shoes and shedding his jacket before laying beside her. She took his cold hand, trying hard not to cry again.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, sniffling a bit.

"You have no cause to be," he said, running his fingers down her arm. "I overreacted. The fault is mine. No more tears." He brushed his thumb over her cheek and then traced the line her tears had made. "I am a monster," he then said after another pause.

"No, you're not," she said instantly.

"I am," he disagreed. "Spoiling this day for you...making my wife cry…" He made an impatient noise in his throat. "I still forget, you know...Just how young you are, how much you do not know…"

"You could tell me some things so I would know."

He was silent, staring at the ceiling, and she scooted closer to him and put a hand on his chest. He covered it with his own, and she looked at his ring for a while. It was similar to hers, a plain, unadorned band, though his was a little thicker. It stood out against his grayish, thin skin. She hadn't seen him without it since they had married.

"Erik?" she said at last.

He grunted to show he was listening.

"Will you tell me why? Why you don't want me to?"

He was silent for a while, and she was just going to ask him again when he said, "I don't like Russian."

She blinked, surprised at his statement. "Okay. Why not?"

He paused again, apparently thinking. "It is the language of my...past. My...childhood."

His childhood. She had a hard time even imagining. Being raised in a closet with..._that _as his mother. Well, not mother. But kind of? The whole relationship with Madeleine still confused her a little. But even so, his childhood sounded truly horrific.

"So…" she said slowly. "Russian just means bad memories?"

He turned his face away from her; she took that as a yes.

"That makes sense," she said, trying to sound comforting. "Swedish reminds me of my dad. I like speaking it because it...makes me feel good. It reminds me of home." She paused. "Gosh, Erik. I'm sorry. I had no idea." She sighed tiredly and then said, "I'm sorry for all the stuff I do that upsets you. I don't mean it. I just want you to be happy."

To her complete surprise, he laughed a little, and then he shifted and pressed a lingering kiss to her lips, then to her forehead, cheek, and neck, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her in.

"Poor, delightful girl," he said. "Everything you do is wonderful. Erik is simply an old, ugly, unpleasant man. You shouldn't listen to me."

She giggled, and she eagerly sank into his bony, chilly embrace. The morning had been a little rough, but...overall, she didn't regret what had happened, especially considering the end result. Erik was holding her, and she had learned more about him. They were fine.

"Merry Christmas," she murmured.

* * *

><p>The silence was becoming a little oppressive.<p>

She looked back and forth between Erik and Mr. Khan, wishing she knew what to say to spark up conversation between them. Erik was leaning back in his armchair, staring at the wall, looking deep in thought, and Mr. Khan was gazing at the floor, also apparently thinking. Christine wondered what they were both thinking about. There didn't seem to be any animosity or hostility between the two of them, but the fact that they had all been sitting there in silence for the better part of five minutes was making her uncomfortable.

She stood suddenly and went to the kitchen, intent on making this a nice visit. Even after all the pain he had caused, Mr. Khan had done a lot for both of them, and she found she actually kind of liked him now...despite the fact that he had almost killed Erik.

Determined, she loaded up a plate and carried it back to the room, aware that they were both watching her.

"I made these," she said cheerfully, pointing to the plate of pastries and sweets. "For Christmas. Erik didn't touch them, but I thought you might like them. I can't eat them all by myself. And I have hot chocolate for you two, as well…" She gave them both a cup and then resumed her seat.

"What've you been doing the last couple months?" she asked Mr. Khan. "It feels like forever since I've seen you!"

"Yes, it's been a while," he agreed. "But I'm glad that you two seem happy."

"We are," Christine said, smiling over at Erik. "It's been nice."

"What are your plans, then?" Mr. Khan then asked.

"Oh, I have rehearsals starting next week!" she said. "I'm so excited to sing again. It's been forever. But I'm ready to go back, I think."

"You will have to tell me when and where," Mr. Khan said. "I'll come watch one night."

She nodded eagerly. "That'd be so fun."

They spoke for a little while longer, mostly about inconsequential things, and it was strange and nice to again talk to someone who responded easily. Sometimes Erik was hard to pry open for conversation, but now that she and Mr. Khan were apparently on the same side, she found it easier to talk to him.

"And we're still looking for something above ground," she commented, glancing over at Erik again. "I'm not sure when...but I think we'll be moving soon."

"That will be good for both of you," Mr. Khan said. "You look a little pale, Christine."

"Are you suggesting I trap my wife down here?" Erik suddenly snapped.

"No," Mr. Khan said firmly. "That's not what I'm saying."

"It's just the winter," she cut in hurriedly, not wanting them to start arguing. "Not exactly tanning weather. I'm fine." She picked up the plate and held it over to Mr. Khan. "Here, try one."

He picked up something with a nod of thanks, and she resisted grabbing one for herself, glancing down furtively at her stomach. She had lost some weight...but dieting was kind of hard, especially when she wanted to eat the gingerbread biscuits that were in front of her. Still, she set it back down on the table and looked away. Hopefully it would all be worth it...Then Erik would stop avoiding her.

"I have something for you," Mr. Khan said suddenly, reaching into his coat. "A late Christmas present, I guess. I almost forgot."

"Really?" She was shocked, wondering what it was. He pulled out a white envelope and held it out to her.

She took it and felt through the envelope that they were pictures. For a moment, her stomach dropped. The last time Mr. Khan had given her pictures, Erik had been shot. But as she pulled them out, she gave an exclamation of surprise and delight. There were five of them, and she excitedly studied one after the other.

The first two were pictures of her and Erik on their wedding day. Erik had been reluctant and had almost refused to be photographed, but Christine had been adamant, and so he had grudgingly allowed two to be taken, but only by Nadir, and only in the house underneath the Opera House. She smiled at them, tears stinging her eyes. They weren't professional or especially romantic or even very flattering to either one of them, but the visual representation of it all...of their love and wedding...Even with his reluctance, she could now see the happiness that had surrounded him on that day.

"I forgot about these," she said. "They look great! I love them. Thank you so much!"

The other three were old pictures of Erik, obviously in Iran. She glanced up at Mr. Khan. Erik was still in his chair, his arms folded, looking extremely unhappy, obviously knowing the pictures she was holding.

"These are amazing!" she gushed, waving them around. "How did you get them?"

"I took them," Mr. Khan replied. "A long time ago. I used to have a couple more, but…" He glanced toward Erik, who shrugged his bony shoulders casually.

"The less there is of me, the better," he said. "I see a few still managed to escape."

"I forgot I even had them," Mr. Khan said. "That's probably why."

Christine looked at the first one. It was of Erik standing outside a huge, beautiful mosque. He wasn't posing at all; it appeared like he didn't even realize a picture was being taken. His appearance was almost startling. Not in a bad way...but he just looked so different.

The most obvious difference was his mask. It wasn't the black leather one she had come to recognize. This one was of a different shape and material and looked heavier, almost clunky and less defined in its features. It was white and had patterns painted on the edges. She had only ever seen him with the black mask and without any mask, so seeing this was like seeing him with a new face. It was bizarre.

His clothing was different, too. She had seen him in white Oxfords and black pants, and that was about it. Now sometimes he would put on the new pajamas she had bought for him, but she was accustomed to seeing his usual wardrobe. In the picture, he was wearing some sort of...tunic. That was the wrong word for it, she knew. It wasn't really a tunic, but it was white and longer than a regular shirt; it looked to be made out of light, breathable material. He was wearing dark blue pants of the same material, and his shoes were leather and laceless.

Then she laughed. "Your _hair!_" she exclaimed, looking at him. He scowled.

"I was young," he said shortly. "It was years ago."

She laughed again, covering her mouth hastily. "No. It's nice."

His hair was well past his shoulders, dark and tangled, and she grinned widely but resisted saying anything else, instead returning to the pictures.

It was like stepping into another time. She had only known Erik as the rigid, strict, sarcastic, unyielding man who sat before her. But he looked...otherworldly in the pictures. He seemed more relaxed. Open. Freer. Younger. Obviously, he was a lot younger. But he wasn't carrying all the weight on his shoulders that he did now. There was something in his stance that suggested a kind of ease that he didn't have anymore. It was almost sad to see.

The next picture was of him sitting on a sloping green hillside, looking out over something. It was his profile, and she stared, touching his masked face carefully.

"Wow," she murmured. "You look beautiful in these."

"What?" he snapped. Mr. Khan laughed.

"You really do," she said. "Like...I dunno." Like he had stepped out of some Middle-Eastern legend. She half-expected to see him wielding a curved, jeweled sword in the third one.

She looked at it closely. It was of him in what looked to be a workroom or laboratory of some sort. He was holding up a long piece of oddly-shaped metal, looking at it closely, and his sleeves were rolled up a little.

"You're not as skinny in these pictures," she said absentmindedly. She flipped through them again and again, fascinated. "There used to be more?"

"Only four or five," Mr. Khan said. "Someone was quite camera shy."

"Yeah, Erik, we should get more pictures of us soon!" she said, looking up at him. "We only have those two from the wedding."

He looked repulsed by the idea. "Both of you should leave me well enough alone," he said sourly. "The world is ugly enough without replicas of me in it."

She rolled her eyes and went back to the picture of him by the mosque.

"That was right before New Year, I think," Mr. Khan remarked, seeing which photo she was holding. "Remember, Erik? That was the year Shamil Giv Rahbar had that party…"

"Poor man," Erik said, a smile beginning to tease his thin mouth. "What an embarrassment. Who knows what came over him."

Mr. Khan laughed. "And his cousin got a video of it, did you know? I saw it a couple months after. Running through the room, screaming…"

Erik laughed as well. "I'm sure I don't know _what _happened to give him that sort of fright!"

They talked for a while, exchanging memories and laughing, and Christine sat there, feeling left out but happy for them as well. It was a strange feeling. She couldn't laugh or contribute to the conversation, so she felt useless and stupid, but seeing Erik laugh and talk to Nadir was a wonderful thing.

She looked through the pictures a few more times, glancing surreptitiously at Erik every now and then to compare. The difference was still a little startling. It had been twenty years according to him, and of course things changed in twenty years, but it was the expression in his eyes, his body language, that spoke to her the most. An innocence, almost. If she could call it that. He had already been through Europe and had gone through his drug addiction at that point, but he just looked...different. And looking at him now...it was a stark contrast.

With a stifled yawn, she leaned back into the couch, half-listening to them and blinking at the pictures. With a small sigh, she closed her eyes, warm and content with how the day had ended. The only thing that would have made it better would have been a gingerbread biscuit.

She dozed for several long minutes until she heard her name.

"Hmm?" She opened her eyes blearily and saw Erik bending over her, his hand on her shoulder. "Oh, no. Sorry. I didn't mean to—to…" She was interrupted by a wide yawn. "Fall asleep. Where's Mr. Khan?"

"He excused himself when he saw how bored you were of his company," he replied, and she wanted to be annoyed at his sarcasm, but all she managed was a sleepy smile.

"Come," Erik said softly, slipping his arms around her and pulling her up. "You must sleep."

She clutched the pictures tightly in her hand. "You won't get rid of these, will you?"

"You truly want them?"

"Yeah! Please. Don't throw them out."

"The real thing is much uglier, I suppose," Erik said, setting her on the bed. "But I will not dispose of them if you do not wish it."

"No. I like them." She set them on the nightstand and gratefully sank into the pillows. After another minute, she felt the mattress sink slightly, and she rolled over to put a hand on him. He ran a finger over her wedding ring.

Carefully, making sure that he gave his wordless permission, she slipped off his mask and then kissed his hollow cheek.

"You should grow your hair out again," she teased, running her hand through it.

"I am too old for that," he groused. "Besides, it looked wretched."

"You looked mysterious," she said. "And if you did, I could brush it and braid it for you, and we could share shampoo and a blow dryer…"

"On second thought," he said, sitting up and reaching over her, "perhaps these pictures _should _be incinerated."

"No, don't!" she said quickly, grabbing his hand. "I'm sorry. I was just teasing."

To her surprise, he laughed and kissed her forehead, and she could feel the small smile on his lips. "I am aware. But you are quite merciless, you know. You are cruel to your poor Erik."

She giggled, snuggling into him and wrapping her arms around him.

"Only because I love you."


	6. Chapter 6

Her first rehearsal left her worried.

"I don't think anyone likes me there," she confessed to Erik that afternoon, curled up under a thick blanket on the sofa. Erik had been fiddling with Gustave's violin again, apparently still trying to 'connect' with it. He looked over at her.

"Nonsense. You are perfect."

"Ha _ha_," she drawled. "I'm being serious."

He frowned. "So am I."

She rolled her eyes, trying not to feel flattered. "Well, I don't think that the other cast members think so. A couple of them kept looking at me like they really didn't like me."

"What did you do today?"

"We just sang through the score," she said. "Some of the people are really talented. But I just feel like they all hate me. Especially these two or three girls."

He shook his head. "Dramatic thing. It is called _jealousy_."

Frowning, she sat up straighter. "But no one at the Opera House was like that."

"Have you forgotten Carlotta Guidicelli so soon?" he said darkly. She grimaced. Then he continued: "The Opera House is a more reputable and professional establishment. As such, many of its ensemble members have sung in other venues and have had much more experience. These singers, however, have undoubtedly never worked with someone with as much genius as you have."

"But a couple of them _are _really good!" she protested. "And I don't even have the lead and...Ugh. I dunno. It just makes me worried. I don't want...I don't want it to turn out like it did last time."

"Sadly, Carlotta Guidicelli is not the only snake when it comes to this business. You will simply have to be careful. And tell me who they are."

"Hmm." She gave a small smile at his last comment. Then she sighed. "I guess it was only the first day. I'm sure tomorrow will be better."

Erik asked about it the next afternoon when she returned, and she was able to smile. "It was good. I talked with a couple people on break, and they were nice. I feel better."

"'People?'" he said suspiciously.

After a moment, she realized what he was talking about. "Oh. Well, there were a couple guys I talked to. But don't worry!" she added hastily, seeing his eyes flash. "Everyone knows I'm married. So...it's nothing, okay? Please don't be mad at me."

He assured her that he wasn't, but afterward she was more conscious about how she interacted with the men in the ensemble.

The rehearsals weren't extremely difficult, but they felt long and drained her. She had forgotten how much work went into a show, and having lived in lazy comfort with Erik for the last several months, she was surprised by the stamina she seemed to have lost. She was exhausted by the time she got home, oftentimes foregoing dinner in order to go to sleep early.

She didn't feel well-rested from the rehearsal-free weekends, either. On Saturdays she tried to catch up on chores that she had neglected during the week as well as go shopping for things they needed, and on Sundays she went to church and visited her father's grave.

Still, for all the sacrifices, it felt wonderful to sing again. Not even the rude attitude of a few of the cast members could stifle her enthusiasm when it came time to sing. Erik had worked her over her part backward and forward, and that, combined with the hours spent in regular rehearsal, helped her progress a little faster than many who were in the ensemble. Sometimes as she sang, she felt that soaring sensation that Erik had once described to her, like nothing could touch her, nothing could affect her there.

One afternoon, she was pushing her music into her bag, anxious to get home and sleep. If she hurried, she would be able to catch the earlier bus and not have to wait as long. The rest of the cast was doing the same, chattering to each other as they readied themselves to leave. She pulled on her coat, swung her bag up over her shoulder, and then turned around, only to see Mr. Hoffmann there, smiling at her. She took a few steps backward.

"Oh," she said nervously. "Hello…"

"Christine," he said. "How've you been, honey?"

"Fine," she said. "Um...you?"

"I've been 'fine' as well," he said, his smile widening a little. "I just wanted to thank you for working so hard. I can see how much time you're putting into it outside of normal rehearsals. It's really showing and paying off."

"Oh, thanks," she said, a cautious smile flitting across her lips. "That's nice of you to say."

"I'm really impressed," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Keep it up, okay?"

"I will," she said, nodding happily. "Thank you."

He gave her one last smile and walked away to talk to the accompanist, who was shaking her head as she looked over the score.

Christine headed toward the door but was somehow softly and abruptly shoved to the side as four other girls filed out in front of her, laughing loudly. One of them was the blonde girl who had been at her auditions—Catherine Abramson. To Christine's horror and humiliation, a girl with short dark hair whispered loudly to no one in particular, "_Slut_." They all laughed again and disappeared around the corner, their laughter ringing in her ears even as it faded.

Tears stung her eyes, and she stood there, wanting to sink into the floor. Had anyone else heard it? Why would they say something like that? Had she offended them? She wanted to run back home and sob into her pillow. She wanted Erik more than anything.

To her further humiliation, she felt someone touch her shoulder, and she turned to see a man there. She had talked to him once or twice, and he had always been friendly, but at seeing Erik's jealousy, she had been careful around him since.

"You okay, Christine?" he asked, looking at her with concern. "Did those girls do something?"

She shook her head miserably. "They called me a slut…"

He frowned. "They're idiots. Don't listen to them. They're those stupid girls who only get here because of names and money. They won't amount to anything."

Christine nodded, but it didn't make her feel better.

"Hey," he said—Alex, she suddenly remembered. "They're just jealous because you're amazing. So they'll make up a rumor that you're sleeping with the director to get the part so that they feel better about their own mediocre talent."

Christine paled and almost choked. "Are you serious?" she whispered.

Alex chuckled. "_Are _you sleeping with Richard?"

"What?" she snapped. "No! No! What? How could you even—?"

He held up his hands. "I was just joking. I know you're not. Aren't you married? But anyway, this happens everywhere. It's so stupid and such a waste of time. That's why we have to develop thick skin as performers. But I guess it's not called _drama _for nothing." He laughed, obviously pleased at his own joke. "Don't worry about it. You're doing awesome." To her complete shock, he stepped over and hugged her tightly. His chest was warm and firm, and for one horrid second, she was reminded of Raoul, of his scent and the feel of his muscles and his smooth, perfect skin.

Alex stepped back and gave her one last smile, some faint wrinkles appearing around his dark eyes. "Have a good night, Christine, okay? Don't think about what those girls said."

She nodded again, still a little dazed by the hug, and left the theater. There had been nothing suggestive or implied in the brief embrace, but she immediately decided to leave that little detail out of the story when she told her husband.

Erik was enraged.

"_What _did they say?" he hissed as she finished.

"They called me a slut," she repeated dully, rubbing at her sore, tired eyes. The bus ride and walk down had calmed her a lot and made her realize that Alex was right, and also given the fact that she had almost fallen asleep on the bus, her mind was a little fuzzy; all she wanted to do now was sleep.

"I will kill them," he rasped. "I will have them begging for your forgiveness on bended knee, but they will not live to receive it."

She groaned, exhausted and hungry. "They're just dumb girls, Erik," she said. "Someone told me they're just making up lies because the director likes me—well, I mean he thinks I'm talented, y'know. Not _likes _me."

Erik didn't listen and spent the next several minutes calling the girls all sorts of colorful, unpleasant names in a variety of languages. Christine was half-dozing on the couch before he finished his tirade.

"I will cut out their tongues and..." A pause. "Christine. _Christine._"

She opened her eyes blearily and raised her head. "Yeah?"

"Were you listening to me?"

Yawning, she nodded. "Yeah, I was...Yep. They're dumb. I guess I'll stay away from them from now on."

"Idiotic harpies," he muttered. "They would do well to watch themselves."

"You're not going to do anything to them," she stated simply, feeling too tired to argue with him. "I just need to ignore them." _And sleep_.

Erik watched her, his eyes unreadable, shadowed by his mask. "You are very tired again," he stated.

She nodded. "It was a long day…"

After another moment, she sensed rather than heard him approach, and his chilly fingertips wandered over her face, pulling a few stray curls away from her forehead.

"Is Erik's wife very unhappy?"

Her eyes opened quickly, and she sat up, watching him in confusion.

"What? No! No, Erik, I'm so happy with you! No. I'm not very unhappy. I'm very_ happy_." She frowned. "Why would you ask that?"

He let the back of his fingers trail down her cheek and then traced her lips with his thumb. "You are happy here with me," he murmured simply.

"Yes, I am," she said, answering his unspoken question, a hidden fear. Against her will, she yawned widely, and his lower lip twitched into a brief smile.

"Sleep now," he said, his voice soft, inviting silk, enfolding her in its comforting embrace, and she happily obeyed.

* * *

><p>To her relief, over the next few weeks the "drama" (as Alex had called it) with the other girls didn't lead to anything more serious than the occasional whispers and giggles and glances toward her. It still hurt her feelings as to why they felt the need to pick on her, but the rest of the cast had warmed up to her—or had she warmed up to them?—and she felt a small resemblance to a sort of weird family with them. Rehearsals still seemed to suck her dry, but they were mostly fun, in and of themselves. She sang and sang some more, and that was her dream. In the end, what did it really matter what a couple of girls thought about her?<p>

As long as they only thought and whispered and did nothing else...The possibility of them somehow cutting her from her part was a little all too real. She didn't know how they could pull it off, as none of them were leads and had little to no apparent sway with the director, Mr. Hoffmann...unless one of them _was _sleeping with him…

But every rehearsal, Mr. Hoffmann was nothing but enthusiastic and supportive and encouraging to her, giving her a hopeful feeling that he actually liked her as a performer and wanted her there. It was a good thought.

"You're really coming along, sweetheart," he had said to her with his customary smile. "It's like you're getting better every day!"

He wasn't the only one who noticed.

Erik was the happiest she had ever seen him about her voice. Well, happy probably wasn't the best word. Pleased. Or satisfied. She had finally broken the barrier, had escaped the plateau that she had been on since she had been lied to about Erik's death. Once Erik had compared her to a phoenix, living out of the ashes of her failures to breathe new life and...sing again…? She couldn't really remember exactly how he had phrased it, though it had undoubtedly been a lot more elegant and poetic than her memories gave it justice. It had been kind of weird. And sweet. But that was Erik in a nutshell, she supposed.

One Friday evening, she felt a bit more energized than usual, as the prospect of a free Saturday was welcome and anticipated. Erik was in a very good mood, and after dinner he suggested that they sing. But not just _her_. _They_.

He had hinted at a duet some time ago, a year or so ago when he had first taught her, but it had never happened, and so the prospect was thrilling. She went to the piano eagerly, and he rifled through his music for a minute before pulling out a heavy score.

"You have practiced a bit of this," he said as he pulled out a few pages to hand over. "But not all. Perhaps we will simply read through it once or twice and then work on the difficult parts, hmm?"

It was Gounod's _Romeo et Juliette_, and she couldn't help but smile a little as she looked it over. It was the final duet, and Erik started the introduction. She sang as best she could, the French luckily no problem for her to manage.

But when Erik sang...she almost had to grab the piano to stop herself from falling over. How could his voice still have that effect on her? It was heaven, bliss, ecstasy listening to that voice, and the French was beautiful, flawless, a pure love song that had her weak. She almost missed her cue when it came, and she looked back at the music quickly, trying to orient herself.

The sound of their combined voices was nothing compared to the _feeling _of it. It was intimate, beautiful, and overpowering. She could feel her knees start to buckle, but she kept up as best she could, not wanting to spoil it. Erik looked...beautiful as he sat there, playing and singing, his eyes burning, his true genius spilling forth in a rich cacophony of sound and emotion. Even though she made a few mistakes (a lot fewer than she would have made a couple years ago thanks to Erik's teaching), she was glad that he didn't stop to correct her. He seemed to be drawn into the music as well.

Which was why it surprised and delighted her when they didn't even finish the song. As soon as he had looked up to her, as soon as they had made eye contact, the piano had been abandoned. As well as his mask.

It felt as if the music was still surging through her veins, coaxed through her by Erik's long hands, like she was the piano he was bringing to life. He hadn't pulled her over to the bedroom or even to the sofa, apparently too impatient, and she felt some loose sheet music under her. They spent several long, enjoyable minutes there on the floor. It was one of the first times that his icy, rigid will had broken in this way, and she wondered excitedly if it was time to break the Wednesday night cycle. Then, as if he had read her thoughts, he began to pull away.

A little desperately, she tugged him back down, and he returned for another few minutes, his lips warm and insistent. Her head was swimming, her breath gone, and she could feel his own eagerness in his movements, in his breathing and his hands. However, he drew back again, leaving her breathless, confused, and frustrated.

"Are you okay?" she panted, watching as he ran a hand over his face.

"Fine," he said shortly. "Fine." He pushed himself up and swore quietly a couple times. Feeling embarrassed lying there on the floor, she got up as well, disappointed that the night was turning out like this. Heat was rising to her cheeks, and suddenly she felt awkward and unsure around him, a total opposite of what she had felt just minutes before...loved, protected, _wanted_...

There were several moments of silence, and she stood there, completely at a loss of what to say or do. It was embarrassing, and it was awkward, but she knew she needed to try at least once. And if he shut down, she would give him the space he needed. Taking a deep breath, she tried her best:

"Erik? Um...you...I mean—just once…? Wednesdays, I mean?"

What was she even saying? She didn't know. But apparently Erik understood, or at least thought he did, because he turned his face away from her and swore again.

"I knew it," he growled, but she sensed that he wasn't speaking to her. "_I knew it_. I couldn't leave you alone, could I? No. But then...sometimes I thought...No. It's enough, now. Time, is it not?"

"What are you talking about?" she asked nervously.

"I couldn't stay away," he continued, his voice grating. "I am weak, you see...Foolish. _Weak_. But you are so lovely. _So _lovely. I should have known...restrained myself better. I could not."

"What are you talking about?" she repeated. "Erik."

"You don't hate me for it though, do you?" he said, looking at her, his voice going a little shrill. "Do you love me? Christine?"

"Yes," she said, confused and trying not become upset, because that would only agitate him further. "I love you, Erik. But I would love you even more if you told me what in the world you're talking about."

"I knew it, you see," he said, as if he hadn't heard her. "From the beginning. From the very first moment I loved you. Erik remembers her. _Her_. She would always cry. She cried so much, Christine...And she would curse them as they left, spit after them, hate them. She hated it. _Hated it_."

"What? Who?"

"My mother," he said instantly. Then he blanched and shook his head quickly, saying, "No! No! I did not say that! No!"

"Madeleine?" she said, more confused than ever. She tried to pick apart his ramblings. "Madeleine cried?"

"Oh yes," Erik said. "She grew a bit hardened with the years...But the tears never fully left her. And she always hated it. Them."

Understanding was beginning to dawn on her, and it was horrible. Carefully, she stepped over and tried to reach for his hand. He squirmed with discomfort and pulled away. The regression was painful. Almost six months of marriage, and he was again flinching at her touch. It was hard to see how much damage had already been done to him, things that she hadn't even scratched the surface of.

"Do you think I'm like your mother?" Christine then said softly.

"No. No, you are nothing like Madeleine. You are so young and beautiful...soft. Innocent."

"But do you think I hate..._it? _Like your mother did?"

He was silent. Then he said curtly, "I understand now. It is too much for you. I am overwhelming you. And I am doing it because I am weak...disgusting. I could not stay away."

She tried to remember anything that she might have done that could've been interpreted in that way, any word or gesture that would have made him think those things. But nothing came to her.

"You're not...um, overwhelming me," she said at last. Then she cringed inwardly. Not exactly a poetic or soul-touching response, like she had been hoping. "You're not. I've—Erik, it's...it's fine. You're fine. And once a week is…" Why couldn't she get that stupid blush to go away? She had rehearsed this little speech countless times in her head, but when she needed it, it was failing, and she was fumbling with fragments, tossing them at him in a desperate hope that he would understand. "I mean, it's only once a week...You don't have to...Uh, I mean, if you wanted...it could be...more." She tugged at a couple curls, avoiding eye contact, feeling silly and not old enough to be talking about this but knowing that she _was_ at this point. "It could be more. Whenever. Whenever, Erik."

Quickly, she glanced up to him. He was staring at her, his eyes wide. His breathing became fast and irregular.

"Do not say that," he whispered. "You cannot possibly…"

"Yes, I can," she replied. "It's...fine. It's whenever you want."

"But I want you _all the time_," he rasped, his hand shooting out and running from her neck down to her hip, his eyes following, wide and a little desperate. "You have no idea...no idea what kind of animal I truly am."

"You're not an animal," she said, giving up on trying to quell her blush. "And maybe if it was more than once a week it would help you a little."

He gave a short, strangled, bizarre laugh but still looked unconvinced.

"Erik," she said, trying again. "We've only been married a couple months...And I'm not like your mother. I'm your—your wife. And I love you."

He continued to stare at her, his chest going in and out a little raggedly. "Whenever?" he clarified.

"Whenever," she repeated.

A pause. "Right now?" His voice was tinged with a faint, wistful hoping.

She blinked. "Um. Well, sure." She laughed then, her own voice sounding strange to her ears. "I thought that we...but...never mind. Yeah. Yes."

There was another long pause, and it felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her. Finally, another step. Another effort toward their happiness. Another factor of their marriage, talked about and discussed. Communication. She was just beginning to learn how important that was. And how bad they both were at it.

But that topic would have to be saved for another day. As she looked up at his eyes, she suddenly shivered and was gladly swept up into his arms.

* * *

><p><strong>So apparently <strong>_**slut **_**means **_**the end/out **_**in Swedish (correct me if I'm wrong, native Swedish speakers), but I'm pretty sure Christine wouldn't take it that way and would understand the meaning of the word in English. Thanks again for any and all reviews!**


	7. Chapter 7

"Christine. Hey. _Christine_."

With a surprised little gasp, she opened her eyes and looked around, blinking in confusion. Someone had been shaking her and calling her name. Rubbing her eyes to wake herself up, she at last focused and saw a man—Alex—looking at her with concern.

"Yeah?" she managed sleepily.

"Rehearsal just got over," he said.

"Oh, no…" she groaned, burying her face in her hands. They had been blocking something, a scene she wasn't in, and she had gone to sit down in the corner and watch for a couple minutes. And apparently had fallen asleep in the plush seat. "Was Mr. Hoffmann mad?"

"No, we didn't even get to your scenes, so you weren't missed," Alex said, sitting down next to her. "I think a couple of the others went to practice a little bit more in the rehearsal room, but you should be okay."

"I feel so bad," she said, rubbing at her sore neck. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"It was a long day," Alex said. "That's what we all wanted to do."

Christine smiled and then leaned over to gather up her things, her head still a little fuzzy from her nap. She was lucky that she hadn't been needed.

"Hey, Christine?" he then said. "Are you okay?"

"Hmm?" she said, pushing her water bottle and cell phone into her bag. "What do you mean? Of course!"

"Okay," he said. "Just wanted to make sure…"

"What do you mean?" she repeated, curious. "I'm not sick, if that's what you're wondering. I was just tired."

"Yeah. Good. Well…" He looked around. "Just wondering. You've seemed kinda out of it the last couple weeks"

"I'm fine," she said blankly. "Just busy and tired and stressed. Like everyone else. But thanks for asking."

He took that as a hint and stood up. "Yep. Asking just in case. Well, have a nice night, then." He walked away, and she watched him go. She hadn't meant to come off sounding so unkind, but he had jarred her a little with his questions. Maybe she _was _sick...She shook her head, standing as well and making her way out of the theater.

The only thing wrong with her was how tired she was. But that was nothing new. Rehearsals were long, and she was busy trying to keep her little underground house home-like. And now...Erik. She blushed a little. He was _certainly _keeping her busy. Since that conversation by the piano, he had apparently taken it upon himself to prove to her just how much he really did want her. She felt as if they had just barely gotten married. Well...he was probably making up for all the lost time. All those weeks of only Wednesdays…

She had asked him once about it, why Wednesdays and only once a week, and he had stiffly replied that they had been married on a Wednesday and that he hadn't been able to stay away from her longer than a week.

"And I...researched it," he had then muttered, looking at the wall.

"You researched what?"

"How often normal couples...were intimate." He was definitely avoiding eye contact. "Research suggested once a week."

Christine's immediate reaction was to laugh as she envisioned him scanning internet articles about the subject, but then she caught herself and thought better of it. It all spoke volumes about him, about his desire to make her happy. To be _normal _with her, even if he wasn't. So she hugged him instead.

"Thank you for thinking of me," she had said. "But right now we're still kinda newlyweds, you know…" He had wordlessly accepted that answer.

It was almost dark by the time she emerged from the theater, and she yawned widely. She had to swing by the post office and pick up the mail, as she had neglected to do so for over a week. She had a PO Box now because she couldn't just tell people to send her mail to the Opera House. They didn't get much mail, but sometimes she ordered things from the internet, or an occasional magazine would find its way to her. She was also mailed her paychecks, and although they were never very much money, she was beyond glad that she was contributing and helping.

Again, she thought wistfully and hopefully of the home that was soon to be theirs...Or apartment. Anything, really, with a mailbox and windows that opened and sunshine. She missed sunshine.

On the way to the Opera House, she rifled through some of the mail, her eyes heavy and her ears filled with the dull chatter of the bus. She had ordered a frame for one of their wedding pictures. Another package, small and light, made her blush. There was some junk mail and a newspaper, and she put everything in her bag before leaning back and staring out of the window. It was a dark by now, and she examined her reflection in the window. Maybe she had lost a little too much weight from her diet. She felt guilty for thinking it was her physical appearance that had kept Erik away, and so she hadn't mentioned it to him, not wanting to hurt him for assuming that.

_Tomorrow I'll have bacon for breakfast_, she thought sleepily to herself, her eyes closing. _I'll fatten myself up again. _

For the second time, she felt someone shaking her.

"Miss? 'Scuse me? Miss?"

She opened her eyes, trying to adjust to the light. An older man with a thick mustache was watching her, frowning a little.

"Last stop of the night, Miss," he said. She realized he was the bus driver, and she sat up quickly, looking around. The bus was empty. She had fallen asleep again.

"Oh," she said, her voice tight. "I didn't…"

"You missed your stop?" he said. By his gentle but unyielding tone, she knew that he had seen this happen too many times to be too concerned about her.

She nodded. "I'm sorry."

"You need to borrow a phone for a cab?"

"No," she said, standing shakily, clutching her bag close to her. "I have...I have one. Thanks."

He opened the doors of the bus, bid her a goodnight, and she descended carefully out into the empty, cold street. The bus rolled off with a reluctant roar of the engine, leaving her alone. She was in an unfamiliar part of the city, and she looked around in confusion, trying to get her bearings. The street was full of apartment buildings and small convenience stores. Some of them were still open, buzzing neon lights boasting 24 HOURS. A few cars drove by.

Quickly, she pulled her phone out of her bag and shivered. It was late. She had been sleeping on that bus for hours. Unsurprisingly, there were dozens of missed calls from Erik. They rarely spoke over the phone; sometimes she would call him when she missed the bus or was going to be late, just to reassure him. But she hadn't felt it vibrating in her bag, and she bit her lip as she pressed the button to call him back.

He picked up within the first ring.

"_Where are you?" _he demanded, his voice almost hysterical.

"I'm okay," she said softly, glancing around her again. "I fell asleep on the bus. I'm sorry."

"_Where are you?_" he said again.

"I don't know," she said, trying not to tear up or freak out, but his strangled tone was making her jumpy. "There are some apartments…"

"_Find a street name. Now." _

"I can just call a taxi and come home," she suggested, shivering in the cold.

"_Find a street name!" _he repeated, obviously not in the mood to be reasoned with. Christine wandered down the street, looking around for a sign. Thankfully, there was no one out.

After a couple minutes, she found a bent, dirty sign and read it, squinting under the orange, dim, filtered light of the street lamp: "North Union."

"_I will be there in less than ten minutes_," he said. "_Do not move._"

"Okay," she said. "See you soon."

She slid the phone into her pocket and stood there, trembling. The February air was freezing, and patches of dirty, slick ice lined the sidewalks and gutter. Next week was Valentine's Day...She wanted to bake him sugar cookies again, to make him laugh at her awkward blunder from a few years ago. And in her bag...She blushed again. She had bought lingerie for the first time. It still embarrassed her, but hopefully she wouldn't make too big a fool of herself. After all, it was Valentine's Day, and she had a feeling he'd like that a lot more than some chocolates or socks or something.

She stood there, trying to wait patiently but feeling as if hours were passing.

_I'm such an idiot_, she thought miserably to herself. Why had she fallen asleep on that stupid bus? And why had no one woken her up?

Then she huffed a sigh, her breath curling up in a fog. The second question was stupid. She saw people sleeping on the bus all the time and never woke them up.

Her stomach was growling. She hadn't had any dinner yet. If she wanted to put on weight again, she needed to stop skipping meals. It had gotten easier as the weeks went on. As Erik never ate, she let mealtimes just slip away without mentioning them. Of course sometimes she would cook, just to eat something substantial and to persuade Erik to eat as well, but it became rarer and rarer over the past couple weeks. She was too tired to cook regularly anymore.

Across the street, she could see a cashier dozing behind the counter of a convenience store. The wide window was plastered with large, colorful advertisements, and she was momentarily tempted to run over and buy something to appease her stomach. However, she thought better of herself. Erik had instructed her not to move. So she continued to stand, shivering and exhausted.

What felt like days later, a pair of headlights swerved to the side, and she hurried over, eager for the warm car and Erik's embrace. However, to her surprise, the car pulled up next to her, and she saw that it was an old, ugly, rusted orange model. The window next to her rolled down, and she took a few hasty steps back. A man stuck his head out of the window and whistled at her.

"How much, baby?" he called. He looked to be around her age, with long, dull brown hair and hazy dark eyes. Even from her distance, she could smell alcohol and an unpleasant scent of what she could only assume to be marijuana.

She blanched and wrapped her arms around herself. "I'm waiting for someone," she said, trying to sound brave but failing.

"How much is he payin' you?" the man said, and she could see that the driver of the car was craning his head to leer at her as well. "We'll give you seventy bucks."

"What?" she stuttered. "No, I…"

"C'mon," he cajoled. "We'll have a great time. We got some beer and weed if you want some."

When she tried to protest further and explain that she wasn't what he assumed, his face fell into a scowl.

"Look, you ain't worth more than fifty bucks, but we'll give you seventy 'cause we're nice guys. Just get in the car."

"Go away!" she said, freezing and exhausted and hungry and frightened. The men laughed.

To her horror, another car pulled up behind it, and she was about to bolt until she recognized the tall frame that stepped out of the second car.

"Erik!" she said, her voice strangled.

He ran to her, and at last she could see his eyes, wild, desperate..._afraid_. He grabbed her face in his hands and tilted it up to his. She could hear his breathing. It was harsh and uneven, panicked. Then he seemed to realize that there was another car there, for he looked over, pushing Christine behind him.

"Leave," he commanded coldly, his voice chilling, without question.

"C'mon, Batman, we just wanted to have some fun," she heard the man say sourly. "Nothing serious." But to her everlasting gratitude, she heard the car shift and drive away. Its taillights disappeared around a corner, and she released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"Thank—" she began but was cut off as he whirled around and crushed her to him, his arms tight around her, pinning her against his bony chest. His heart was beating frantically. She could feel him shaking a little as well, and she could smell perspiration through his clothes.

"I'm okay," she said, her voice muffled.

He made no reply but continued to embrace her, his fingers twisting into her coat, his breath hot against her curls. They stood like that for such a long time that her back began to seize up a little because of the awkward angle and his strong grip. She wriggled against him. Slowly, he released her.

"Can we go home?" she asked him. "I'm tired."

He led the way back over to the car, and she slid in, sighing in pleasure at the warmth. Erik climbed in the other side, and the car took off smoothly. To her surprise, he reached for her again and pulled her over, running a shaking hand down her cheek and over her curls.

"I'm really sorry," she said then. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. I was just so tired after rehearsals…"

He was silent, but she could sense he wasn't angry, and so she relaxed into his embrace. The car ride was soothing, and she leaned against him, dozing as his fingers continued to stroke her carefully. She could feel his heartbeat slow to its normal pace, and his breathing evened. The heater was blowing on her feet, warming her immensely, and she yawned widely. She felt lucky nothing worse had happened that evening other than a few guys harassing her.

She was almost asleep by the time they arrived at the Opera House, but the stopping of the car woke her, and she stepped out into the cold night. Erik unlocked and opened the door, and she hurried inside, anxious for her bed and its thick blankets.

To her surprise, she felt him pull her bag off of her shoulder, and then his hands slipped behind her back and under her knees. With a startled little squeak, she wrapped her arms around his neck as he wordlessly picked her up.

"I can walk, you know," she protested half-heartedly, laying her head on his shoulder and closing her eyes. He made no reply and continued their descent.

They were silent for a while, and Christine was grateful that he was carrying her. It felt wonderful. To be in his arms. To be protected, safe again.

"You thought I wasn't coming back," she said at last, her voice echoing slightly in the darkness.

"I didn't know what to think," he replied after a moment.

She echoed his pause. "I would never leave you."

They entered the house, and he took her over to the bedroom. She was set down, and she pulled on her pajamas before climbing into the wide bed. To her slight surprise, Erik joined her. His mask was off, and he leaned down to kiss her, and she responded, sensing somehow that he needed the reassurance. Although it was passionate, his fingers didn't wander, instead remaining buried in her curls. He then pressed a few kisses to her cheeks and jaw before pulling away and sighing into her shoulder, his long, pale hand coming to rest on her chest. Not groping, nothing sexual, simply resting, as if he wanted to touch and feel the heartbeat underneath his palm.

Although she was exhausted, her mind began to turn, and she lay there for a while, feeling him gradually drift off into sleep, his breath washing against her.

It had all been...a forceful reminder of just _how much_ she really meant to him. How much he really did love her. Need her. Her life had been so busy and so scattered that she had again lost sight of who the man next to her actually was. Routine and work and married life had lulled her into something of a complacency...They had gently persuaded her into relaxing and believing that Erik was just a normal man. A normal husband. But his eyes, the panic, his desperation that had resulted from her disappearance (a disappearance of a few hours at most) had reminded her that that was a lie. Erik was not normal. He wasn't like other men. Not in this sense, anyway.

The seriousness of it all suddenly overwhelmed her, and she reached up to grasp his hand, his ring rubbing against her skin. She had to be conscious of just what was happening. Erik had been hysterical over a few hours. It was her husband and her marriage and her happiness that depended on it all, and she choked a little and then took a deep breath, calming herself down.

They were happy. She was happy. The only thing that had happened was her realization. And that was good. She made a silent vow to be better—for him. He deserved it.

* * *

><p>She dutifully stood in her spot onstage, singing, listening to the changes in the tempo as the conductor moved the small orchestra through the score. Her costume was itchy and her makeup felt constricting, but she resisted scratching or rubbing and instead concentrated on the music, on the energy that was running from the orchestra to the cast.<p>

It was the last dress rehearsal before the show opened, and there was the usual excitement going through the cast and crew. Christine felt nerves building every time they rehearsed, every time opening night drew another day nearer. This was about as far as she had made it with her other productions. Well, with Figaro she had kind of made it until opening night...But she let a small flame of hope warm her and whisper to her that this time it would be different: this time she would sing. This time would be a success.

Hopefully.

At last, the orchestra gave its final chord and was cut off, and there was a smattering of applause from the few onlookers—the directors and choreographers and costume designers and such, all gathered to watch one final dress rehearsal before opening night.

Mr. Hoffmann stood from his place near the back of the auditorium and approached, his face bright and his smile wide.

"Nice job, you guys!" he said. "Go ahead and take a seat if you want. I'm just gonna run over some quick notes I took…"

Christine took his suggestion and sat down on the stage, leaning against a prop and trying to concentrate as Mr. Hoffmann began reading his suggestions. They were simply small, miniscule mistakes or improvements for the cast, and she waited for her name to be mentioned, forcing herself to stay awake and not fall asleep.

"Christine? Where are you, sweetheart?" he then called. He spotted her and said, smiling, "Great job, babe. Just come onstage a second sooner on your cue, and you're golden."

She nodded, making sure to note that for opening night. He continued, and some of the cast grew a little restless. On the other side of the stage, the small group of girls had gathered, and they were giggling softly and hissing to each other back and forth. A couple of them glanced at her, and she blushed and tried to roll her eyes and pretend she didn't care. She didn't...not really. But she did care. She didn't like it when people were mean to her. What had she ever done to them?

At long, long last, Mr. Hoffman finished his notes and gave them all a long motivational speech for opening night. Christine was feeling too tired to be that inspired, but she listened and nodded absentmindedly anyway. Finally, they were dismissed, and she followed the crowd backstage to change and grab her things.

She put away her costume and pulled on her clothes after wiping off her makeup. Tomorrow she had a break, and then the next day was opening night. She ran through her long list of chores and errands that she needed to get done...and she hadn't visited her father on Sunday, having been too tired after church to manage the trip. Then she shivered a little. Erik always liked her days off. He kept her busy with...other things.

A pleasant, tickling warmth filled her stomach as she thought. Valentine's Day had been successful. She hadn't felt up to making the sugar cookies, but the lingerie had definitely been more appreciated on his part. She had felt silly and uncomfortable when she first stepped out to show him, unused to being so...blatant and provocative, but his reaction made it all worth it. Then he had ripped it in his haste to get it off of her. On accident, of course. Still, the outcome had encouraged her, and two days ago she had ordered three more sets.

Someone put a hand on her shoulder, and she jumped and whirled around, her face bright red at having been caught in her...dirty thoughts.

"Whoa!" Alex said, holding his hands up in a playful gesture of defense. "Calm down, there."

"Oh, sorry," she said, trying to control her blush. "You startled me."

He laughed. "Hope you weren't sleeping standing up."

"Just thinking," she said evasively. "What's up?"

"Oh, yeah," he said. "Well, I have a...not really a favor. So my sister is getting married next month, and we're still looking for some music, and then I thought...hey! I'm surrounded by music people all day. So then I thought...Christine's good! D'you wanna sing at the wedding?"

"What?" she said blankly.

"Do you want to sing at my sister's wedding next month?" he repeated. "I mean, I know it's not West End or anything, but she said she'd pay you five hundred bucks for the reception, which is pretty good for a couple hours."

"Really?" she said. "Has your sister even heard me sing?"

"No, but I told her about you and that you're really good. She's coming to see me in the show next week, so maybe afterward you could sing a song for her or something to prove it...Nothing too hard. But she believes me. And you really are super talented. It'd be nice."

"Does she know the type of music I sing?" she asked.

"Of course," he said. "She wants it to be a little classier. Fancy and stuff. I dunno. Some women are like that, I guess. I don't care. Just give me a beer and a beat, and I have a great time."

"Heh," she said awkwardly. "Well...I guess so. It sounds fine. But can I tell you for sure on opening night? I just wanna check my calendar and stuff."

"Sure," he said. "And like I said, my sister will be here next week, so maybe you could pick out a bunch of songs you could do and show them to her then, so she can decide."

"Sounds great," she agreed.

"Awesome. Hey, thanks a lot for doing this. I think you'll be great. You—"

"Alex!"

He cut himself off, and they both turned to see the blonde girl—Catherine Abramson—standing there, glaring at them, her arms folded.

"You're asking _her?_" she demanded, pointing dramatically at Christine, her voice shrill.

Alex swore softly and then replied, "Um...yeah. Sorry, Catherine, but I thought...uh, I mean...wedding singer? Isn't that a little...beneath you? Ha…"

She gave an indignant, angry huff and stomped off, slamming the door shut behind her. Some of the cast who had lingered to chat snickered at her.

Alex sighed. "I didn't want her to see me asking you…"

"Was she going to sing?" Christine asked nervously. Maybe that was why all those girls hated her so much. She had a suspicion that Catherine was their ringleader.

"No. Well...I might've mentioned it once or twice that we were looking for someone," he muttered. "I mean...yeah. I think she was expecting me to ask her. We kinda...uh, hooked up the other weekend. It wasn't supposed to be anything serious, but then…" He trailed off. "Why am I even telling you this? Whatever. Just let me know if you wanna sing or not." He stomped off, red in the face. Christine watched him go, a little flabbergasted. Suddenly, she felt very grateful for the fact that she was married and didn't have to deal with situations like that.

She hurried home to her husband, who welcomed her with a warm kiss, and she told him of the offer over a cold, hasty dinner of bread and cold cuts.

"A wedding?" he said distastefully.

"I think it'd be good," she insisted. "Just more exposure. More experience." She shoved more bread into her mouth, ravenous.

"You will look back on it in disgust and wonder why you ever sank so low. And slow down. You are going to make yourself sick. "

Christine laughed, though she followed his advice and waited before eating the next bite. "You're so dramatic. I want to sing. And I don't have anything other than this show."

"Not yet," he said stubbornly. "But very well. If you wish to, sing and be paid that ridiculous amount."

She thanked him and then hastily cleaned up dinner before heading to bed. He didn't follow her, so she gratefully snuggled into her pillow and slept. Well, tried to. She had a few uncomfortable dreams about opening night. One dream involved Mr. Hoffmann directing her while the show was being performed. He kept telling her what to do, and then Catherine and Alex were making out in the middle of the stage, and Mr. Hoffmann was applauding them...Another was Erik as the entire orchestra and playing all the instruments, and he didn't like the way she was singing, so he ordered her to have a voice lesson right there in the middle of the show, and suddenly she was naked, and everyone was laughing...

To her sleepy chagrin, she felt someone shaking her yet _again_, and she grunted in annoyance and tried to roll away. She just wanted to sleep. Why would no one leave her be?

"Christine, it is well after midday. You should be up by now." The shaking resumed.

Sighing, she cracked her eyes open. "Erik…" she mumbled. "Is it opening night? I'm not going to have a lesson...not naked onstage, okay?"

"What?"

"I sound fine," she insisted sleepily. "So no naked lessons."

There was a pause, and then he started to laugh. She rubbed her eyes, wondering why he was laughing so hard, and then her mind began to churn and function and she realized what she had said. She groaned, putting her hands on her face to hide.

"I was dreaming," she clarified.

He couldn't reply; he was still laughing. She blushed.

"Stop laughing," she snapped. "I was half-asleep."

He stopped, though there was an amused glint in his eyes, and his mouth was being teased by a smile. "Of course, my dear."

She avoided him for a couple hours, still feeling a little embarrassed. The solitude gave her time to catch up on a bunch of chores, and the continual movement warmed her. She had taken to wearing thick sweaters and a couple pairs of socks around the house, and there was always a blanket or two on the couch for her to curl under when she sat down to rest.

Sometime after lunch, Erik coaxed her to the piano with a beautiful waltz, and she went, unable to resist his music. She listened for a while, enraptured. But he ended it all too soon and beckoned her over for a lesson, a few last hours of work before the show opened.

"You will be magnificent," he said afterward, closing the lip of the piano and standing. "You stand on the threshold of greatness."

Finally. All of her furtive, unspoken dreams and wishes happening…

"I wish my dad could've been here to see this," she then said, suddenly feeling somber.

He was silent for a moment. "Do you still miss him very much?"

"Of course," she said. "Well, I mean...not as much as in the beginning. I think I'm fine now. But of course I still miss him a lot. He's my dad."

Erik didn't reply, and she realized that he probably wasn't sure what to say, having no way to relate to her. Then she felt bad and reached over for his hand.

"Thanks for the lesson," she said, moving past the subject of her father and into more familiar territory. "I feel a lot better now. I think I'm ready."

He looked at her closely, his eyes searching, and then he nodded. "You are."


	8. Chapter 8

The rush of it all came sweeping back over her the moment she woke...The rustling of the audience settling, the whispers, the orchestra tuning, the heat of the stage and the bodies as she performed. The energy from the audience had nearly overwhelmed her; the feeling had been indescribable. And as they had applauded for her at the end—just for _her _during her bow at the curtain call—she had almost been in tears. Her first show. Her first role. And she had done it. At last.

Of course, it was not without some help from Erik. Just before it was time to leave to go to the theater, she had had a small break down, sobbing into his shoulder that nothing would go right and that she wouldn't sing and everything would get messed up again. He had awkwardly and silently sat through her bawling session, letting her say everything she wanted and confess all her fears. Then he had mopped up her face with his handkerchief and shook his head.

"You will be magnificent," was the only thing he said.

And later, he had told her he was. He had been there, hidden away somewhere, and she had sung only for him. The rush of it all had been amazing. There was finally appreciation for all of the hard work, hours of practicing and tears and doubts and worries.

Afterward, there were a few pictures and celebratory hugs and chitchats with the rest of the cast and crew, and she had stayed only as long as was strictly necessary before hurrying out of her costume and makeup to leave and find him. The black car had been waiting a block away, just as he had said it would, and she had run to him, throwing her arms around him and kissing him as best she could with his mask.

"How did I do?" she murmured, her lips moving to his exposed jaw. "It was all for you. Tell me how I did."

"Magnificent," he hissed. "Magnificent."

The ride back to the Opera House had seemed somehow longer than ever. He was obviously impatient to get home and _show _her how pleased he was with her.

Not for the first time, she felt an embarrassed sort of gratitude for having talked with him about his once a week routine. She had at first wanted him to figure it out...but now she was glad she had taken that step instead.

Another smile came as she slid closer to Erik, wrapping her arms around him. His skin was cool, his frame angular and hard, but she could feel the music in him as well as he breathed slowly and his heart beat under her hand. She pressed her cheek into his back, blushing a little.

Last night, she had felt ready for another step.

The two times she had tried to undress him at the beginning of their marriage, he had pulled her hands away and snapped at her. She hadn't felt brave enough to try again. But last night had felt different. He was different.

"You don't have to hide from me," she had said softly, looking at him steadily, her hands on the buttons of his shirt, waiting for his consent. "I want to see."

"You don't," he said curtly.

"I do," she replied. "Please let me. It's time."

"It is repulsive," he said. "You will be sick."

"That's not true," she said. "I've already seen...some of you. It's fine. You're ready. We're ready."

There had been a few more protests, followed by her gentle reassurances, promises of love...Eventually he let her, burying his face into the crook of her neck as she carefully ran her hands down his bare back, his spine and ribs and shoulder blades bumping into her fingers, sharp protrusions, like they were trying to tear out of his dry, uneven, scar-riddled skin. He was gasping a little, and she could tell, with a jolt of surprise, that he was making a concentrated effort not to start crying.

"It's okay," she had whispered, unsure of what else to say.

"Are you afraid? Are you disgusted? Christine." His voice was hoarse. "Christine. Tell me you love me!"

And she had tried to show him without words just how much she loved him.

Erik flinched suddenly, and she waited to see if he was awake, but he merely shifted and murmured, "_Kozha_…" before his breathing evened. She tried not to huff about the fact that she didn't know any Russian. She would just have to look up the word later if she could remember it.

Christine sighed quietly as she thought of it all. Tonight she was going to perform again. The very idea was thrilling. There were eight whole weeks of it, eight weeks of costumes and backstage rushing and music and spotlight...She had loved every moment of it. The music had lived in her.

She dozed for a while longer, enjoying the feel of his skin against hers—even if his was cold and dry. The applause and the music from the performance washed over her again. It was only thanks to Erik that she had experienced that. Alone, she had quit. Without his help, she would have quit again. But it had been worth it. All of those failures and embarrassments paled in comparison to that feeling she had had while standing onstage, singing and being appreciated for her talent.

His breathing changed slightly, and he moved, signaling that he was waking up.

"Morning," she murmured. _Was_ it actually morning? She had no idea.

"You should still be sleeping," he said, his voice soft and delicious and thick with sleep. "It is early."

"But I have so much to do today..." she protested half-heartedly, tempted at the thought of just sleeping instead of doing all her errands.

He was silent, and she thought he had fallen back asleep until he leaned over to flip on the lamp. She squinted against the sudden light, a bit grouchy that it was waking her up.

But now she could see him again, his skin dry, discolored, and stretched tight. She pressed a kiss to the top of his spine and carefully traced a long scar that ran from the base of his neck down to the middle of his left shoulder blade. Her eyes wandered across something she hadn't noticed the night before, and she blinked.

"Erik," she said immediately. "What's this?"

"My hideous corpse."

"No. It's…" She pressed her fingers against it and then laughed. "You have a _tattoo_?"

It was small but obviously there, etched into an awkward, off-center spot of his left shoulder. It looked like some kind of Middle Eastern writing or mark. The ink was a dull black and appeared somewhat faded, but it was still clear enough to see. She was amazed at the sight of it, just as she had been amazed at the pictures Mr. Khan had given to her.

"It is not a tattoo," he then said shortly.

"Well, then what is it?" she giggled, tracing it. "It's definitely ink. And what's it mean? It's just some weird symbol. Is it something from Iran, maybe?"

"Yes," he said, pulling away from her and sitting up to grab his shirt and pull it on. She winced, feeling bad for making him so uncomfortable. Awkwardly, she picked up her own clothes.

"It was a...gift," he then said, anger and bitterness creeping into his tone. "From that prison, you understand. The mark of the Evil Eye. They are incredibly superstitious, you know."

"Oh. Wow." His tone made it clear that the "gift" had not been voluntary on his part. "That's...awful. I'm sorry."

"Yes. Now you've seen it and know that I'm cursed with the Evil Eye and will use your talismans and charms to protect yourself from me." He sneered. "The _monster_."

"You're not a monster," she whispered.

He laughed, but it was harsh and humorless. "You are the only person in this world who thinks that. So what does that tell you, my dear?"

"That I know you better than they do," she said, trying to sound sure and confident.

"And I am not a monster to you?" he challenged. "Knowing what I have done...what I look like...I am not a monster?"

"Not to me," she replied. "What you've done...you've done a lot of bad things that I wish you hadn't done. But...you're different now. You're really...good to me, Erik. You're a good husband."

The last comment seemed to deeply affect him, and he averted his unmasked face for a moment, his thin chest going in and out raggedly. She took one of his large hands, slipping her fingers through his and running her thumb over the back of his hand, remembering the first time they had held hands...in the car that night she took his mask off. She nearly shuddered remembering.

Erik's grip on her hand tightened a little, and he pulled her into an embrace, pressing his face into her curls. She smiled softly.

They had both come a long ways from that night.

* * *

><p>Performing was a whirlwind.<p>

It was something she couldn't even try to describe and something she wondered how she had gone so long without doing.

After opening night, she somehow felt more sure of herself in an innumerable number of ways. The performances that followed after only strengthened her, and she felt like the long, draining rehearsals had torn her down, only to have the show build her back up, stronger than before. Of course it was still tiring—almost more so now—but she could feel the shift inside herself that the rehearsals hadn't given her.

However, she soon realized that her performance didn't exactly make up the whole show.

"How did you like it?" she asked Erik the evening after opening night, just as she was getting ready to leave to the theater for her second show. "I mean, in general?"

"It was perfectly dreadful," he said.

She looked at him, a little shocked. "I thought you said I did a good job!"

"And I meant it. You were perfection. But the show itself is a catastrophe."

Christine grumbled, tying her shoes and pulling on her coat. "You're just a natural critic. It's not _that _bad…"

When she got to the theater that evening, she was greeted with a small round of applause as she stepped into the dressing room. She stood, confused, as three or four of the other women watched her and clapped.

"Seen the review yet, Christine?" one of them asked.

She shook her head and was then quickly given a newspaper. There was a small article near the bottom, and she read it quickly.

_Raw Talent Brings Flame of Life to Otherwise Lifeless Show_

_The legend of Prometheus is known to many, and yet the opera Prométhée, written by Gabriel Fauré in early twentieth century, remains for the most part unknown. If the performances in the past were anything like the performance given last night, it is no wonder that the opera remains obscure and unloved. The strange mixture of modern with the ancient, the direction and the pacing, and the bizarre, absurd effects all created a numbing, almost uncomfortable atmosphere in the theater. _

_However, there is one spark of hope in the dismal mess that is onstage. Like Pandora's box referenced in the opera, it seems as if boring and horrible things were released for this show, yet there also escapes a glimmer of hope. The hope comes in the form of the performance of a young soprano, Christine Daae. Daae, a heretofore unknown performer, saved the show from complete disaster with her jaw-dropping, groundbreaking talent. And although the show itself is not worth saving, Christine Daae is worth seeing more than once. She should not be missed._

Christine looked up, suddenly feeling very hot and almost guilty.

"Oh...that's...not very nice of him," she said lamely, handing the paper back. "I don't think the show's that bad…"

The girl took the paper and rolled her eyes. "C'mon Christine, we know you're the best one here. You should be happy that the reviewer liked at least you! Even if he didn't like the show."

Still uncomfortable, particularly under the gaze of the other women (some of whom did not look as pleased by her success as others), she gave an awkward laugh and sidestepped them to grab her costume and makeup. She noticed Catherine Abramson resolutely applying mascara, ignoring her with a clenched jaw and steely eyes.

Luckily, she was able to push the worries out of her mind while she performed, feeling that rush as she sang. Again, the audience stood for her during the curtain call, and she was actually in tears by the time she left the stage. It felt amazing. She hoped that Erik was listening to the applause as well and was taking some of it for himself. It was all thanks to him, really.

She didn't need to show him the newspaper review. He had found it himself and had been the closest to _ecstatic _that she thought she would ever see him. He spent most of the evening talking about her future, the plans he had, which shows she would perform in, _where _she would perform…

"Vienna?" she said laughingly. "New York? Sydney? What next—Antarctica?"

"The world is yours now," he declared, no teasing in his eyes, only earnestness, seriousness.

A couple nights later, Alex's sister attended, and afterward, Christine sang two songs for her backstage. They were simple little love ballads that Erik had, very grudgingly, practiced with her (yet he had suddenly become much more subdued and less irritable after she sang them; she had hid a smile).

Alex's sister was a pretty, tall woman named Sara who had sat there with an open mouth. Then, when Christine had finished, she had wiped a hand over her forehead.

"Wow," Sara said. "_Wow_. I mean...I didn't even need to hear you sing those songs. Listening to you onstage was enough. But...wow. That was amazing. I'd love it if you sang at my wedding. Please? Will you sing? I don't even care what anymore. Just sing for us!"

"Yes, of course I will," Christine said, smiling tiredly. The performance had drained her a little more than usual, and she was exhausted. She got the information about the reception from Sara, was given a silly high-five by Alex, and then gratefully left the theater, glad to be swept up into Erik's awaiting arms.

A few evenings afterward, she was feeling tired and bedraggled, and she got to the theater later than usual, meaning she had to rush to get into costume and makeup, barely finishing by the time the overture started.

The rushed feeling lasted the entire performance, to her dismay. She couldn't seem to get a foot down and keep up, and she almost missed a cue once during the night, which only flustered her more. A pressure in her chest began to form, like she couldn't breathe deeply enough to sustain her voice and do what was required during the show. During the curtain call, it surprised her that the audience still rained down applause for her. She took a few bows, confused but wearily happy that it was over, and left the stage.

Backstage was a flurry once again. She was pushed and jostled along, and she did her best to swim through the crowd of flushed, sweaty, excited people. There was a universal feeling of happy exhaustion, and as she made her way through the hallways, her breath still seemed to be shallower than usual.

A few audience members had trickled in, family and friends of other cast members, and she gave it no thought until she spotted a familiar face. A huge smile broke onto her lips, and she actually jumped up and down a couple times before hurrying over to him.

"You came!" she exclaimed to Nadir Khan. Quickly, she reached over and hugged him before realizing what she was doing. Then she drew back. "Sorry," she said hastily. "That was...yeah. Sorry."

He looked a little surprised, but he smiled. "It's fine. As long as I won't get in trouble for it..."

Her own smile returned, and she laughed breathlessly. "You'll be okay. And you came! I'm so happy you did! Did you like it? It's awful, isn't it?"

Mr. Khan laughed as well and then looked around at the backstage activity with interest. They moved to the side of the hallway so as not to block the flow, and Mr. Khan looked back at her.

"That was very impressive, Christine. Now I see that all his bragging is justified. You have quite a talent."

"Thanks," she said, her cheeks turning a little warm. It was still flattering whenever someone complimented her. "But I wasn't very good tonight, I don't think...Sorry. I just felt so rushed and behind the whole time."

"If you felt that way, you hid it well," Mr. Khan said, his brows furrowing. "You were spectacular."

"Thank you," she said again, and she paused, feeling too warm amidst the people pressing in around them. With a deep, refreshing breath, she said, "You should come visit us tonight! Then we can talk longer and you can tell me what you thought about the show. And I'll feed you something if you're hungry. Are you?"

"Oh—no, thank you," he said, shifting uncomfortably. "I couldn't impose. I just—"

"You're not imposing!" she interrupted, ignoring the headache that was beginning to form. "Please come? I know it's kind of late, but I want you to come. Y'know, he's actually waiting out back, and I can go get him, and we can all go together. I even got a nice frame for one of the pictures you took of our wedding. Then you can see it!"

He tried to protest again, but she ignored it and pushed past him, saying, "Let me just change out of my costume really quick. Just stay here and hold on a minute till I get back!"

Without waiting for his answer, she made her way into the dressing room, putting a hand on her forehead and taking another deep breath. There was a chair sitting by one of the counters, and she sat down gratefully. Only three or four other girls were changing, most of the others either gone for the evening or out talking backstage. Luckily, it was somewhat quiet. Two of the girls were talking about the performance, gossiping happily about some of the guys in the cast. Christine reached over the counter for her toiletries bag and began to wipe off her makeup, trying to hurry so Mr. Khan wouldn't have to wait too long.

Erik was waiting for her as well. A smile crept up onto her lips at the thought.

As she stood to change out of her costume, her vision abruptly began to swim.

Before she realized what was happening, she felt someone shaking her roughly and heard a dull murmur of voices.

"_Christine! Wake up!" _

"_Stop shaking her! You're gonna hurt her!" _

"_No—look, she's waking up. Stop! Be quiet!"_

Already confused, she opened her eyes, unaware that they had even closed, and she blinked. She was looking up at the ceiling, and Mr. Khan and the girls from the dressing room were crouched around her, peering down in what looked like worried concern.

"You okay, Christine?" one girl asked.

"Yeah…" she replied, trying to get her head to stop buzzing. Her back was hurting, too. "Did I...fall down?"

One of the girls nodded, her eyes wide. "You just passed out! It was so scary. I found your husband and brought him."

Christine looked around in alarm for Erik before realizing what she meant, and she laughed, her voice shaking and shrill. Her lungs felt almost parched, starved for air…

"Nadir's not my husband," Christine said. "He's just a friend."

"Oh, sorry," the girl said, her cheeks turning red, and she glanced between Christine and Mr. Khan with embarrassment. "I didn't know...I just saw you guys hugging and thought…"

"No, it's fine!" Christine said hurriedly. "Thanks for bringing him." She was starting to get embarrassed herself, lying there on the floor, and she sat up as quickly as she could, her head immediately spinning in protest.

"Careful," Mr. Khan said, putting a hand on her back. "Don't get up too fast." She could see him frowning deeply at her, looking concerned.

"I'm fine!" she insisted. "Just help me up, and we can go." She looked at the girls watching her anxiously. "Thanks for your concern, but I really am fine. Just low blood sugar, I think."

They nodded, still looking worried, but broke the circle anyway. Mr. Khan took her arm and hand and helped her climb to her feet. She swayed, her legs feeling unsteady.

"I just need to get out of this costume, and then we'll go." She tugged at her dress, hating it at the moment.

After another few questions just to make surethat she could stand, Mr. Khan left to give her some privacy. The dressing room was a lot quieter than before, and she felt more embarrassment as she unzipped and pulled off the dress.

"I really am okay," she suddenly said aloud to the girls. "I just didn't have dinner. I'm fine, though."

The girl who had found Mr. Khan nodded at her. "I understand. My brother is diabetic, so he always has to be careful with what he eats, or else he gets really sick, too."

Diabetes? Was that why? No...she had always been healthy. Nothing was wrong. She yanked on her jeans and sweatshirt. "Yeah," she replied noncommittally. "Thanks again for your help. I think I need to go now, though...See you tomorrow!"

The girl waved, and Christine grabbed her coat and bag before leaving the room. Mr. Khan was waiting just outside, looking anxious.

"Relax," she said, starting to feel a little annoyed. She wasn't some sickly, injured person. "I'm fine. I just stood up too fast."

He didn't reply, but his expression didn't clear, either, and he followed her through the backstage area out the back door and down the block, where she knew Erik was waiting.

"Don't tell him I passed out," she then said seriously, wiping at her forehead. "He'll freak out and get really worried about it. It's not a big deal. Please don't tell him. I'm fine."

Mr. Khan made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat but said nothing.

"I'm serious, please don't mention anything," she said, frowning.

The black car soon came into view, and she felt her heart skip a little as she saw Erik emerge, tall and intimidating and wonderful. She hurried over and threw her arms around his neck. His hand ran up and down in her back in a gesture of familiar affection, and she leaned into him, sighing in relief. Everything was fine.

"What is he doing here?" Erik suddenly demanded, and she turned to smile at Mr. Khan, who was looking at Erik with a strange expression she couldn't pinpoint.

"He came to see the show!" Christine said. "And I invited him over."

"Why?"

"Because he's our friend," she explained. "That's what friends do."

"But he is irksome," Erik said.

She rolled her eyes. "I want him to come over. Can we please go? I'm hungry and cold."

Erik glared, but after a few moments it appeared that her needs outweighed his annoyance, and so he nodded, opening the door for her to slide in. She heard Mr. Khan murmur something about having his own car to drive, and then Erik climbed into the seat beside her.

The car pulled off when the door was closed, and he pressed a few half-kisses to her forehead and cheeks, his mask pressing into her skin. She wanted him to take it off and kiss her for real, but she would have to wait for that.

"I felt so behind tonight," she said to him as they neared the Opera House. "It was like I couldn't catch up on anything. Like I couldn't even breathe…"

"There were no serious mistakes," Erik said. "In everyone else's eyes, you were perfection."

"But not in yours," she said sadly. "I'll do better tomorrow."

He actually laughed a little and pulled some of her curls over her shoulder to stroke them. "You are still magnificent to me. Perhaps simply a bit overexerted, hmm?"

"Yeah, probably," she said, feeling relieved by his assurances.

"We will work a bit more on your stamina and breath control. But they adored you regardless."

She smiled and leaned her head against his shoulder.

Down in the house, she pulled out her options for refreshments and made a face at them. She hadn't anticipated Mr. Khan's coming, and she hadn't cooked anything in a while, so the options were few. With a tired sigh, she did the best she could with what she had. Erik had disappeared into the office as they had entered the house. After a few minutes, she heard the front door open, and Mr. Khan entered.

It was still a little weird for her to be playing hostess like an actual adult wife (the term _adult _was still unnatural to her), but she loaded up a tray of drinks and went to the front room to greet the guest she had invited over. He was looking at her, his expression still one of thinly-veiled concern.

"Would you stop that?" she said softly. "I'm fine."

Erik appeared only after she called him, and she set a few plates before them and instructed them to help themselves, knowing Erik wouldn't and Nadir would try to refuse again. She tried to be friendly and sociable and not dwell longingly on her bed with thick blankets and soft pillows. She had invited Mr. Khan over, after all, and she did want to be a good host. She was too tired to try to persuade Erik to eat something. Instead he picked apart the performance, critiquing everything from the orchestra to the lighting design.

Mr. Khan nodded and replied and offered a few of his own ideas. He was no expert, but he obviously knew what he was talking about, and Christine gave the occasional required comment. She knew the production wasn't going to be hailed as groundbreaking or even that good (as the reviewer had so scathingly pointed out), but she did love it, as it was her first, her step, her bridge into her dreams.

She did her best not to fall asleep on the couch like she had done the last time Nadir had been there. She was still a little embarrassed that she had done so, and so she sat up straight and kept her eyes open as best she could.

However, after a while the conversation drifted from the production to the current state of Iranian politics, something she had no idea about, and so her attention started to drift, which caused her eyes to droop.

"Christine? Are you all right?"

She snapped her eyes open and looked up, stifling a yawn. "Oh, yeah, sorry Nadir. I'm just...tired."

He gave her another piercing, meaningful look, and she glared at him just a little, as if daring him to say anything. _He had better not…_

"If you are tired, then you should sleep, my dear," Erik said, frowning at her. "You should not be up so late, anyway, not with another performance tomorrow."

"I'm fine," she lied, folding her arms. What if she left and Mr. Khan told Erik about what had happened after the show? She didn't want to be fussed over and worried about by Erik, her actions and decisions monitored at every step.

"Go to sleep," Erik said firmly. "Nadir will be leaving soon, anyway."

Happily and grudgingly, she stood, putting a hand on Erik's shoulder and then saying goodnight to Nadir while giving him another warning glare.

But no matter how much she wanted to stay and make sure that Nadir kept his promise, the wide bed was a welcome, blissful relief, and sleep embraced her with open arms.


	9. Chapter 9

_Two years_.

Christine was staring at the headstone, shivering in the early spring wind. Although the sun shone brightly, the warmth was not yet there, and the grass was soft and moist, too wet to sit on it, so she crouched awkwardly, humming as she picked away dead, soggy leaves and grass from the headstone and ensured that the grooves of the name were clean and free of dirt.

_Two years_. The worst years of her life. And the best.

Memories came back to her...The night of Gustave's disappearance, meeting Erik, their lessons, the strain of her relationship with Raoul, Gustave's debilitating illness...and the funeral. It had been raining, hadn't it? She looked up toward the sky. Nothing but bright, cold blue and a faint, wispy cloud that drifted lazily through the air. No rain, no gloomy skies...Just the promise of spring.

She looked back at the headstone and told him of her recent performances, how pleased Erik was with her progress, how much she loved the music and the singing.

"My director, Mr. Hoffmann, even talked to me about performing in his next couple shows!" she said. "Erik's not sold on the idea...He thinks Mr. Hoffmann is dumb, but still. It's something. And anyway, Erik thinks everyone is dumb."

She was quiet for a moment, looking around the cemetery as if Gustave was replying, but of course he wasn't, and she played with a few curls that had fallen over her shoulder.

"Erik said your violin makes him mad," she then said, giggling a bit. "Not that it's a bad one! He said it's a really nice violin. But he says that for some reason he can't..._connect _with it. I don't know what he means by that. Some weird musician term or something, I guess. But he still keeps it in good shape for you. I think you'd like that. It's not meant to be put away in a closet, like I did with it."

Her knees twinged a bit in protest at her extended awkward crouching, and she shifted uncomfortably, knowing she needed to go soon but reluctant to do so.

"I think you're happy now," she murmured. "I am, too...even though I still miss you."

_Did he miss her? _

That was a hard question she didn't want the answer to, so she didn't. She brushed away the wet grass that clung to the top of her shoes before standing and promising to visit next week. She had to hurry to the pharmacy before it closed. Her birth control was almost gone…

It had been weird and a little uncomfortable, doing all those normal things before getting married. Doctor's appointments...examinations...probing questions. Things that hadn't factored into her childlike dreamworld before marriage were actually upon her and the reality of unwanted pregnancy had caused her stomach to jump in fear. Pregnancy. Children. The thought was not yet welcome. She didn't know if it would ever be for Erik. So she got the pills, and he took her and wrapped her up in his world of love and music and isolation. Just the two of them. Maybe forever. She didn't know, and it was something that she didn't want to think about just then.

She could never get rid of the embarrassed warmth in her cheeks whenever she approached the tall counter to get the pills, and it was no different that time. The tall, dark woman behind the counter chewed noisily on her gum and typed Christine's name into the computer, the keyboard loud and jarring.

Christine opened her bag to pull out her wallet and then remembered that she had left her identification card and debit card sitting on the bed after ordering some Swedish novels online that morning. She sighed in annoyance and rubbed her forehead.

"I'll try to be back before you close," she said apologetically. The woman nodded, looking bored and unconcerned, and Christine hurried out and back to the Opera House. It wasn't _imperative _that she get them today, but it was Friday and she had a break that evening, and the pharmacy wouldn't be open tomorrow, and then her performances would drain her, not to mention she had to get the rest of those songs ready for the wedding...

Grumbling to herself, she unlocked the door and hurried down the first hallway. The prospect of having to go all the way back up and go back to the store was daunting and unwelcome. Maybe if she asked nicely...Erik would go instead...She could only imagine how well _that _would go over at the counter.

_If you do not hand over the contraceptives, you will have to…_

She struggled trying to think of a phrase that Erik would use. _You will be sorry. _Then she laughed a little. Erik was a lot better at word play and making things sound elegant. Sometimes she wondered if he was ever annoyed at her expressions...her vague, unintelligent "hehs" or "ums" or "uhs" that seemed to spill from her mouth constantly. Hopefully not. It wasn't as if _she _was a genius…

As she turned down another hallway, she stopped, realizing suddenly that it was pitch black and that she had forgotten the flashlight in her haste. She had gotten this far by memory, a habit in her steps that told her where to go only because she had done so so many times before. But she was unsure now with her realization, and she took a few hesitant, unsure steps in the dark.

_Stupid_. Why had she forgotten it? She huffed and pulled out her cell phone, pressing a button to turn the screen on. The light from it was dim, diluted and spread too thin in the darkness, and she squinted as she tried to figure out where she was. There were a couple arrows near the hallway, and she held up the phone closer..._Blue. Blue…_

The colors seemed a little mussed in the ugly, small glow of the phone, but she saw what looked like a blue arrow and followed it, giving another annoyed sigh. Erik would have to lead her back up and would probably chide her all the way for forgetting the flashlight when he had _told _her never to do so, to never wander in the tunnels...

She paused again, looking around. The hallways were now completely unfamiliar, and she held up her little phone light to see that there were no arrows there anymore. Her stomach jumped.

"It's fine," she said aloud. _I'll just go back to where I was...Maybe the arrow wasn't actually blue..._If she couldn't find her way from there, she would try to call him, but the reception was bad in the tunnels. If that didn't work, she would have to sit there and sing for who knew how long before Erik heard her and came up for her. That would be tedious.

With a little shake of her head, she turned around and headed back down the hallway.

Before she had gotten three feet, something grabbed at her ankle and pulled her forward. She screamed and fell on her back, smashing her elbows and hitting the back of her head. Color exploded in her eyes, and she moaned and rolled over, only to cut herself off with another shriek.

Something was tightening around her ankle, and it hurt. Badly. She sat up quickly and reached over to pull at it, only to feel warm blood seeping from the area. With frantic cries, she prodded around and felt a thin wire rope of some kind that was obviously digging into her skin. When she shifted closer to give the line some slack and release the pressure, it tightened instead. She shrieked again, choking on tears and trying to get her fingers under the thin wire. It was impossible. The pain was excruciating. For several heart-stopping moments, she imagined that the wire would eat its way through and cut off her foot.

She screamed for Erik over and over, trying not to become hysterical but failing. Her fingers were slippery with blood, and it felt like her whole foot was drenched. What _was _this? Why was it here? Would she be trapped forever?

The light from her phone had gone off—she had no idea where it was, and she patted the ground around her blindly, her bloody fingers becoming coated with the dirt and grime of the floor. She kept trying to shift closer to the wire, hoping insanely that the pressure would be released, but it didn't let up.

What felt like hours of bloody pain later, she finally heard him. He was calling for her, and she shrieked again, gasping and sobbing.

His footsteps were heavy and fast, and he ran to her and dropped down, light suddenly appearing. He was carrying a flashlight, and he shined it down at her ankle. She gagged and gave a shuddering sob. It looked like something out of a gory horror movie, dark red blood oozing down and soaking her shoe and sock.

"Hold still," he commanded, and he leaned over. As soon as he touched it however, she flinched away, but the wire only bit into her skin more as a result of the movement.

"It hurts!" she bawled. "Don't touch it!"

"I have to cut it," he replied. "The more you move, the tighter it gets. Please. Christine. Hold still."

He shifted a little and pressed his knee on her shin, effectively pinning her leg down. She screamed when his fingers returned, but after a few seconds of excruciating, blinding pain, the pressure was gone, and her ankle was freed. She fell backward and lay there, crying hysterically, pressing her hands over her face.

"How long have you been here?" he asked, his voice strained, tight. She shook her head, unable to manage words. It felt like her whole leg was throbbing, a hot, pulsating pain that numbed her ability to speak or think.

His hands slipped under her, and he picked her up, holding her close to his chest. Her cries echoed through the hallways, but by the time he opened the front door, they had weakened into shuddering, painful gasps and sighs.

The bathroom was really too small to accommodate both of them, yet he maneuvered around her as best he could, pulling out bandages and creams. He slipped off her shoe and bloody sock, and she closed her eyes in mute horror at the sight of it.

He was methodical, focused, silent as he worked, and only her occasional yelps of pain and heavy, gasping breathing permeated the tense, taut air. The cool water on her ankle felt good, and then he wrapped a rolled towel tightly around it to stanch the bleeding. He held it there for several minutes, kneeling beside her awkwardly in the cramped, small bathroom. Her head was pounding from the fall, and her elbows hurt too, but her ankle hurt the worst by far. She was bizarrely grateful that the wire hadn't cut off her entire foot.

At last he carefully removed the towel, and he rubbed a cold cream around the cut before picking up a roll of white bandage and wrapping it around her ankle.

"We are lucky not to be in need of stitches," he said softly, securing the bandage. He put her foot down gently and then pulled out another towel, running it under the faucet to wet it. His fingers were trembling a little, and he picked up her hands and wiped away the blood and grime on them. She saw that his own fingertips were pink, stained. Gently, he cleaned her face as well, his actions focused but the expression in his eyes looking far away.

"Thank you," she murmured, starting to feel somewhat calm again.

He picked her up once more and carried her over to the couch, setting her down and spreading a blanket over her. She leaned back with a slow, exhausted sigh.

"I just forgot the flashlight," she explained weakly. "I'm so stupid...I didn't even realize…"

"No," he replied, his voice quiet. "You did nothing."

"You told me not to go anywhere else," she said. "I didn't really mean to, but...And...are there those wire things all over the tunnels? Is that why it's not safe to wander around?"

He was silent for a moment. "There are...others," he said.

"Is it so other people can't come down here?"

"Yes," he said, and his voice was still so soft, almost gentle. It confused her a little; she would have expected him to be hysterical. But maybe he had learned something or was restraining himself for her sake. Luckily, his demeanor was calming her even more. It wasn't such a big deal, really...Her ankle still hurt a lot, but everything had turned out okay. Nothing life-threatening, just a scare.

She grimaced at the thought of the other traps, though. "Has anyone else gotten hurt by those things?"

"No, not by the wires," he replied, stroking her hand. "If we are careful, we might even be able to avoid scarring…"

A few minutes passed, and she sighed tiredly and then laughed weakly, humorlessly. "Guess the refill will have to wait until next week." Something troubling came to her. "I have a performance tomorrow! And I have that wedding to sing at! I'll be able to walk, won't I?"

"Yes, of course," he said. "Perhaps no more today, but tomorrow I will change the bandage and ensure that the blood has clotted and stemmed sufficiently."

"Good," she murmured. He stroked her hair absently, and she shifted uncomfortably.

"My dad died two years ago today," she stated after a few moments, wanting the conversation to get away from her ankle and the traps. "I went to the cemetery this afternoon."

"Yes...You have been withdrawn recently. Sad." He was holding her left hand, running his thumb back and forth over her ring.

She tried to think of a time when she had been sad or withdrawn around him recently. Maybe when he had told her about his 'evil eye' the morning after opening night, but other than that, she couldn't remember anything.

"But you are not unhappy here?" he then said, his eyes widening. "Not unhappy with your Erik?"

"No, of course not!" she assured him. "No, I told you, I'm really happy here with you. Happier than I've ever been before."

"Even after…" He looked down to her injured ankle. She could see a very faint trace of red on the bandage.

She shrugged. "It was an accident."

"An accident…" he echoed, his voice nearly a whisper. His gaze was still on her ankle, and she started to feel unsure, her stomach beginning to churn.

"It...it _was _an accident, right?" she whispered after a while.

"Of course it was!" he snapped angrily, instantly, looking back at her. "Of course it was!"

"I believe you," she said hurriedly, shrinking back. "It was an accident, I know."

"No—no. My Christine." He ran a hand down her arm. "Do not fear me."

"I don't," she said, trying not to show her confusion. He seemed...off. Unsettled. And that unsettled her. "Are you okay, Erik?"

"Fine." He hummed a few lines of what she recognized to be _Tosca _and then stood, smoothing the blanket over her methodically.

"Are you sure?" she pressed. "You can tell me, you know, if you're not."

"I am quite well," he said baldly, gently lifting her foot to put a pillow underneath her ankle. "You are not, however. You must rest." He kept humming and disappeared for a moment before returning with some water. "Drink this. I will play for you."

The piano rang out, the piece haunting and beautiful, and she laid there, trying not to feel bothered by his behavior. It had certainly been an unconventional day in many ways, but everything was okay, and they were both safe and together. She was fine. So he was fine.

Wasn't he?

* * *

><p>The wedding reception was at an old Victorian manor that had been refurbished as a venue hall for parties and the like. The downstairs had been gutted and converted to a large room suitable for such occasions, and Christine was charmed by the quaint, old-fashioned look and feel of the place.<p>

The room was full, a couple hundred people milling about, and the dim lights and pretty piano music gave it a nice, calm, pleasant air. She sat near the piano, sipping on a glass of water and waiting. Alex's sister—Sara—wanted Christine to first sing for her first dance with her new husband, and that would be in a few minutes. The newlywed couple was currently floating about, greeting, chattering, mingling, a happy glow about them. Christine smiled at the sight.

The only other person she knew was Alex, and she had seen him for a few minutes after she had arrived. He had given her a wave and then had disappeared in the direction of the bar. She was beyond grateful to see that Catherine Abramson was not present. The pianist was a pretty middle aged woman whose name she didn't know, but they had practiced the songs together once or twice before the reception had started.

Christine wondered if Erik was lurking somewhere. She had no idea where he would hide himself. Although the lights weren't too bright, she couldn't spot many hiding places, unless he was upstairs somewhere or in a different room. He hadn't said he was coming, but when she asked if he was going to stay home he had been noncommittal in his reply.

His mood had been worrying her lately. Ever since she had hurt her ankle (which was healing fine and only twinged when she bent it too far or put direct pressure on it), he had been distant, vague almost, as if he was looking through her most of the time. Whenever she tried to ask about, he would snappishly insist that he was 'fine' but would go on acting like he was floating about in some weird, hazy cloud. He didn't avoid her when she touched him, but he did not seek her out. To her greatest surprise, they hadn't been intimate since the accident. After being so..._affectionate _with him recently, the absence was getting strange, and she was starting to miss him.

_Maybe the wedding will give him some ideas_, she thought to herself, trying not to frown. He wasn't exactly a conventional husband, so hopefully he would snap out of whatever mood swing he was in and come back to her.

The crowd began applauding, and Christine sat up straighter to realize that the bride and groom had made their way over to a large, empty space, signalizing their readiness for their first dance. Christine stood and stepped over to the microphone, smoothing her dress and giving a smiling glance toward the accompanist, who nodded in return.

The love ballad came easily to her, a simple, uncomplicated, slow melody that Alex's sister had been so blown away by. Christine relaxed and let herself enjoy the easiness of the song. It didn't require the intense concentration, the focus, and the hours of work a complicated aria did. It just required feeling and interpretation, and she sang happily. The newlywed couple swayed together, their eyes closed, and Christine felt a sudden pinch of sadness steal over her...a troubled, innocent sort of subtle jealousy. She and Erik could have never had that, never had a first dance with family and friends looking on in love and support.

Thankfully, the song ended before her emotions became too overwhelming, and she took a deep breath as the final chord rang out. The silence that followed was overwhelming, and she peered out on the small, makeshift stage to see that all the guests were staring at her. Sara looked around as well and then looked back at Christine, smiling and starting the applause. It rippled through the room and grew louder. Christine murmured a thanks that was probably lost to them in the noise, and then the piano started up again for another song.

She sang a few more pieces, trying to focus on the music and not on the thoughts of her husband who she loved more than anything and who was acting so strangely...and who had never danced with her or taken her to a nice restaurant or out to the theater…

After the fourth song, she saw Alex making his way toward her, and he stepped up on the stage, swaying slightly. She grabbed his arm to steady him.

"You okay?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yeah, fine, thanks. Hey, listen...Sara wants you to stop singing for a while."

Christine hesitated. "Am I doing a bad job?"

"No!" He laughed, shaking his head. "You're doing too good. No one wants to dance or eat or talk. They all want to sit and listen to you." He nodded to the pianist, who started playing. "You're too good, Christine. Take a break, and then you can finish up the night. That's what Sara says." He grinned, and she realized that he was more likely than not a little buzzed. "There's an open bar if you wanna join me while you wait."

She shook her head, resisting an urge to laugh at him. "No, thanks. I'm just gonna sit for a while. I'm kind of tired. Thanks, though."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said before disappearing back into the crowd.

The night wore on, and as she sat there, several people approached and complimented her warmly on her performance. All the comments were flattering and genuine, and she couldn't restrain a happy grin that stole her over. She was actually doing it...living her dream...being appreciated for her talent and work. It was still a little unbelievable.

She ended the reception with a few more songs, and there was a long, loud chorus of applause after. She hoped that Erik was there, listening to it. He deserved it as well.

Sara thanked her over and over at the end, even hugging her once. Christine was startled but touched by the profuse thanks, and Sara's new groom even thanked her for making their wedding day unforgettable.

"When you're famous, we'll be able to say that you sang for our wedding," he said, smiling.

She laughed and brushed the compliment aside. "Thanks for the opportunity. I had a nice time."

People were drifting out, and she thanked the pianist once more before getting her own things and leaving the venue. Erik had said he would be waiting with the car down the block, like he did for her performances, and she zipped up her coat as she stepped outside to go to him.

The black car soon came into view, and she felt her heart tug a little, as if it was pulling her to him.

"Christine!"

She turned in confusion and then saw Alex stumbling toward her, obviously hurrying to catch up, though his steps were unsure. Her heart nearly disappeared.

"Yeah?" she said. "Do you need something, Alex? I'm going home now."

"No—well, yeah," he said, his voice thick. He was by that time more than a little buzzed. "You were awesome in there! Thanks again. Really nice of you. Sara cried after you left. She said you were...the best in the world."

"Oh, that's nice of her to say," Christine said, not daring to look around to the black car. "Well, I'm going to go now."

"No, I need something," he said, frowning in confusion and swaying. "Something...Sara told me…"

"We can talk at the performance on Thursday," she said. "I don't think you'd remember anything I told you, Alex. You're pretty wasted."

He shrugged again. "Yeah, maybe...There was an open bar, did you know that? Anyway...uh, Sara needed…" He scrunched his face up. "Oh yeah! The address. Your address."

"Why?"

"For...um…" He took a few unsteady steps to the side, and she grabbed his arm again to steady him. "Money," he said. "Your money! To give you money for singing so nice."

"I have a PO Box," Christine said, relieved at the reason. Just to pay her. Not for social calls or anything…When had she become so paranoid? "Here, let me see if I can write it down for you...I have a pen in my bag somewhere…"

As she was rifling through her bag, she felt sudden pressure behind her, and her stomach dropped as she heard,

"Who is that?"

She turned around, gulping a little as she saw Erik, his eyes burning as he looked at Alex. She was surprised that he had come to her but not surprised at all that he had come to confront her about a man who had followed her out.

"His sister was the one who got married," she explained hastily. "I'm giving him the PO Box so she can mail us the check…"

"I recognize him," Erik then said, his voice flat, though there was a layer of contempt. "He is in your production, isn't he." There was no question in the sentence.

"Yeah," she said, glancing at Alex, who was staring at Erik with a slack-jawed drunkenness that might have made her laugh under different circumstances. "He was the one who offered me the chance to sing for his sister. He's nice."

"He is disgusting."

Alex finally became conscious enough to join the conversation. "Who's that?" he asked Christine, pointing at Erik.

"No one," Christine said hastily. "I'll just give you the PO Box number on Thursday, Alex. Have a nice night."

"Is he gonna kidnap you, Christine?" Alex demanded. "Is that why he's wearing a mask?" He took a step closer and actually reached out, as if to touch the mask. Christine stared, horrified, feeling like she was incapable of doing anything but watching as Alex's hand drew closer. For a moment, she wildly thought that Erik was actually going to let him, but he quickly pushed Alex away instead, his shove not as hard as it could have been but still hard enough to make Alex stumble back and fall to the pavement.

"Stop," Christine said instantly, breaking out of her paralysis. She had to do something before something bad happened. "Let's go, Erik."

Erik growled at the man on the ground, who was uninjured but still baffled at the sight. Christine grabbed her husband's hand and tugged.

"I want to go home. Let's go. Please."

With one more spiteful, hateful look, Erik fell into stride with her and ushered her over to the car. She slid in quickly and peered out the window to see Alex struggling to his feet, stumbling around and watching the car drive away.

Christine sighed and leaned back against the seat, wishing the night hadn't ended on such a sour note. It had been so nice at the reception…She had been hoping to soothe him and help him relax afterward, but that was now unlikely to happen.

"Did you listen to me?" she asked after she couldn't bear his silence.

"Of course," he said, looking out the opposite window.

"Did I do okay?" The worry was back. Usually he liked to touch at least some part of her during their car rides, whether it be her leg or holding her hand...But he wasn't even looking at her.

"You were splendid. As always."

The car drove for a couple more minutes, and she felt as if her heartbeat was thundering in her ears.

"Alex wasn't going to do anything," she then said, wondering if it was the best or the worst thing to say to address what had just happened.

"I am aware," Erik said. "He was far too inebriated. But I did not want him touching me. Or you."

She wondered if Erik didn't want _her _touching him, and so she clasped her hands together in her lap, looking out her own window, trying not to tear up. She was tired and a little emotional from the reception...All those warm feelings of promise and love, shared by family and friends. It was a reminder of what she could not have, not with Erik.

Her phone buzzed angrily, and she pulled it out in confusion. An unknown number calling. She ignored it, not feeling very chatty or curious at the moment. However, a few minutes later, she received a text from the same number.

_Hi Christine this is Sara. Sorry to bother you but Alex keeps talking about u and a guy in a mask. You ok? Text me asap_

Christine would have laughed normally, but the mood in the car seemed to squish it down and keep her quiet. Instead she replied: _Hey, no worries, I'm fine. Just on my way home. Alex needs to keep away from the open bars in the future, lol. _

The reply came: _Lol i know sorry. Just wanted to make sure ur ok. Thanks again for your singing! Have a nice night!_

"He will not remember details in the morning," Erik then said. "It is fine."

"Good," she said softly, stowing her phone away.

The silence resumed, and she was tempted to tear up and feel bad for herself, but she glanced at her ring and mentally shook herself. No, everything was fine. She was married to Erik, and she loved him more than anything, and he loved _her _more than anything. Nothing was wrong. So what if their relationship wasn't like everyone else's? She was happy. And so was he.

It wasn't until the car stopped that she spoke again. She looked out of the windows in confusion. The car had turned off, meaning they weren't stalling or waiting for a light, and she frowned.

"Erik? Where are we?"

* * *

><p><strong>I hope you guys aren't disappointed that Christine isn't pregnant! I was actually surprised by how many thought so, but it would have made sense. But at this point, I just can't see EC being parents. Like...they would super suck at it. Again, hope no one is upset by the news. <strong>

**Also, to the "Guest" reviewer: I will answer any guest reviewer questions (and any and all questions) as as long as it's a question that won't be cleared up in later chapters/give away parts of the story. :)**

**Thanks so much for the reviews! You are all amazing.**


	10. Chapter 10

"Erik?" She looked at him, uneasy by the fact that he _still _wasn't looking at her. "Where are we? This isn't the Opera House."

_Well, duh_, she thought to herself. But still, where were they exactly? From what she could see, the block was comprised of lower middle-class apartment complexes and a few convenience stores as well as a couple shabby-looking restaurants, nowhere near their underground home.

Erik got out of the car, and she scrambled to follow him, tripping a little over her dress and short heels. The night had a bit of a bite to it, still being March, and she pulled her coat tighter around herself. The trunk popped open, she watched carefully as he lifted out a suitcase.

For a few moments, she stared at it and then looked around blankly before realization dawned on her. Was it time? It had to be. This was it!

Giving a squeal of girlish delight, she actually jumped up and down a few times, exclaiming, "Really, Erik? Did you find something? Thank you, thank you, thank you!" The confusion and annoyance and sadness of what had just happened with the reception and Alex vanished in her excitement, and she followed him over to a door, grinning widely at him. He pushed a button next to it, and after a moment there was a loud buzz, signaling the door was unlocked. She followed him in excitedly. A house aboveground! With windows and sunshine and life around them!

The complex looked a little more run down than what she would have expected, and it carried a lingering scent of old cooking, but she wouldn't complain. The choice was probably to avoid pesky neighbors or nosy landlords.

"How did you find it?" she asked as they walked up a few short flights of stairs. "This is such a surprise! We'll go back for the rest of the stuff, right? Or—or is it already here? But I was just at the house a couple hours ago and everything was still there!"

On the second floor, he set the suitcase down and knocked on a dull, chipped door. That confused her, and she was just about to ask why he would knock on the door to their new apartment when the door opened. Nadir Khan was standing there.

Instantly, her elated feelings evaporated.

Not their new apartment. Nadir's apartment.

He stood back, and Erik dragged the suitcase inside. She followed slowly, trying not to be annoyed at him but failing. Why would he let her get all excited and say nothing about her obviously incorrect assumptions? What was wrong with him?

Mr. Khan shut the door behind him, and Christine forced a smile.

"How are you?" she asked lamely, resisting the urge to immediately ask Erik the obvious question. _Why were they there? _

"Fine," Mr. Khan said. "How was the wedding?"

"Oh, did Erik tell you it was tonight?" she said, glancing over. He had set the suitcase on the old-looking sofa and was peering out of the window. "It was okay. Nice, actually." She didn't want to mention what happened _after _the reception.

Erik then straightened and turned and finally—_finally_—looked at her. Christine pulled her coat tightly around herself again, suddenly feeling uneasy. There was a small moment of silence, and Nadir looked between them a few times before saying awkwardly, "I'll be back in a minute. I left the...window open." He disappeared through a door, leaving them alone.

"What's going on?" she asked instantly. "What are we doing here?" Not that she didn't like being around Nadir, but it was getting late, and she was still feeling upset by the fact that Erik hadn't take her to a new apartment like she had thought...and that he hadn't told her, had simply let her think that until the last minute.

"You must stay with Nadir for a while."

She blinked. "What? Why?"

"I have much to do. You will stay here."

"But I don't want to," she said, a horrible feeling beginning to close in on her. "I want to go home."

He shook his head. "You must stay here."

"Are you serious?" She was watching him closely, half-expecting him to start laughing like he was joking...but Erik never really joked like this. The feeling was intensifying, clawing its way through her. He was being serious.

"I simply need you to stay with Nadir for a little while. He has promised to take good care of you."

The phrase sickened her. "You can't just—you can't..." She could barely speak. Tears were threatening to fill her eyes, and she rubbed them away quickly. "But I don't want to stay here, Erik. I want to go home." He was usually so careful to give her what she wanted...A soft _I'm cold _or _Let's go _was nearly always enough to have him take her home. He _wanted _her there, in his home. Didn't he?

"There are things I must do without you," he said, his head tilted slightly, watching her like she was some entertaining show. "You will be safe here." He paused and looked at her a little more closely. "You needn't be so dramatic. I shall collect you from your performances and take you here; we shall see each other every day. It's simply better if you are here for the next little while."

"_But_ _I don't want to stay here!_" she suddenly shouted, surprising herself at the volume and intensity in her voice. She had never actually _yelled _at him before—she hardly ever yelled, period.

"I was under the impression that you were _friends_ with Nadir…"

"Stop!" she snapped. "Just…" There was a long moment of silence as she tried to work out what she wanted to say next, but the absence of angry words left room for more emotions, and the tears began to drip down her cheeks.

Suddenly, she was five years old again, clinging hysterically to her father even as he tried to pry her off of him while whispering useless words, his voice laced with tears of his own…

_Your aunt will take good care of you, Lotte…_

Christine choked on a sob. Other words suddenly echoed in her mind; the night Erik had been shot. _You'll be well taken care of._

He was sending her away, like a little child, like something to be shoved out of sight. Something not to be trusted or confided in.

"Come now, no tears," Erik said, his voice starting to at last have some emotion to it, a sort of strain that would have normally moved her. "Why are you upset? I simply need you here for a while...Then we will be together again."

"But I could help you!" she cried pathetically. "I could help y-you with whatever you're d-doing!"

"Not this time, I'm afraid." He stepped closer to her and reached out to touch her for the first time in days. Christine turned away, and his hand hung in the air before dropping to his side, his fingers curling. Maybe it was cruel...but she felt he was being crueler. What had happened to his melodramatic confession that he would _die _if she left? That he never wanted to be parted from her? That they belonged together? What was it that she couldn't be there for?

"I will wait for you tomorrow after your performance," he then said, his voice hard. "Your things are in the suitcase. Sleep well. Enjoy Nadir's cooking."

Before she could call out to him, he left, slamming the door shut so loud that it felt like it shook the entire building. She jumped, staring after him, half-expecting him to come back and take her with him...but the door remained closed.

Mr. Khan entered the room carefully a few moments later, looking at her with a sort of disgruntled, unsure apprehension. She wiped at her eyes but was unable to stop the flow of tears. For the first time since she married, she felt alone.

"Are you...hungry?" Nadir then asked quietly.

"N-no," she hiccoughed. "I want to go home." _Home_. Back to the house underneath the Opera House? Back to her apartment in the city? Back to the rundown apartment she had lived in with Gustave? Back to Paris? Back to Sweden? _Where?_

"I have a spare bedroom," Mr. Khan said, sounding nervous, no attempt to console or soothe. She didn't blame him for it, though. "It's down this hallway. I'll get your suitcase."

The bedroom was more like a large closet, with nothing but a twin bed, an old chest of drawers, and a pile of junk in the corner. Mr. Khan pushed the suitcase over to the foot of the bed before looking back to her. She had followed him, trying still to stop crying, to grow up and be mature about it all, but it really did hurt. _He would never trust her. Never let her help. Never open to her._

"There's a bathroom across the hall," Mr. Khan then continued. "Tomorrow I can give you instructions on how to get to your theater from here. Do you have any food allergies? Christine?"

She shook her head. "I d-don't like zucchini," she said blankly.

"All right, I'll be sure to remember that." He backed out of the room slowly, like she was some crazy animal that was going to attack him. "Have a...nice night, Christine." The door shut.

She stood for another moment, looked around the cramped room, and then fell onto the bed, burying her face in the pillow and bawling until she was too tired to. Her restless sleep was interrupted by unpleasant, unwelcome dreams that always involved her being locked away, trapped somewhere dark and scary and unable to escape. She woke early the next morning, blinking groggily, her eyes heavy and tired. The brilliant morning sunshine streamed in through the window, and she stared at it as it spilled across the foot of the bed. Normally she would have been thrilled...but at that moment, she would have rather had Erik's fingers stroking her hair to wake her up. With a small groan, she rubbed her eyes and climbed out of the bed.

Nadir's apartment was small and meticulously-clean but obviously getting a little rundown. There were hairline cracks in some of the corners of the rooms, and the floor creaked in most places. The furniture was all older and worn but spotless.

For the first few hours, none of it helped her sour, petulant mood. She glared at it all, hating the stupid ugly countertops of the kitchen and the old coffee table and outdated television. This was not her home. She wanted the piles of books and the large piano and the thick, pretty rugs.

Nadir gave her a breakfast of hot cereal and fruit. She nibbled on a banana but refused the rest. Then she returned to her room to mope for a little bit longer, wallowing in miserable self-pity and confusion and not wanting to do anything but whine and pout.

What was he doing? Why couldn't she help him? Why would he just pawn her off to Mr. Khan, hand her over like some annoying pet? _Was _she just an annoying pet to him? Something he could amuse himself with until he got bored with her?

She lay there on the creaky old twin bed, staring at the ceiling, tears occasionally dripping into her ears. What if she just got up and went back to the Opera House? What would he do then? Pick her up and force her to come back here?

Then she huffed a frustrated sigh. She hadn't brought her key to the reception with her. She would have to sit outside and wait around until Erik appeared, and he was unlikely to do so until dark. And she had a performance tonight. The thought was horrible. Getting up and making her way to the theater...singing...Normally thrilling, now the prospect was the exact opposite.

There was a knock on the door, and Nadir pushed it open. "There's lunch," he said. "If you want any."

"No, thanks," she said, rolling over.

She thought that that would be the end of it, but he persisted. "You should probably have something. You didn't eat any breakfast."

"I had a banana," she insisted, wanting him to leave her alone. Obviously Nadir had been part of Erik's little scheme…That's how Nadir was, always tricking her, going behind her back and conspiring to take her away from people she loved. Where once she had thought of him as a good friend, she now thought of him as a traitor, her bitterness making her feel childish but justified.

"Please come eat something, Christine," Nadir sighed. "Erik said he wants you to eat enough while you're here."

"Then I'm never going to eat again!" she snapped dramatically. "I'm going to starve to death if _Erik _wants me to eat!"

Nadir shut the door, but she heard him mutter something that sounded like "_children_" on his way out. She wanted to yell at him for it, but she couldn't draw up the energy to do so.

Going to the theater took every last ounce of effort and resolve. She dragged herself out of Nadir's little apartment and followed his instructions. Down the block, onto a bus, onto another bus...another block…

As she stood in the wings, waiting for her cue, a horrible temptation overcame her to perform badly on purpose just to spite Erik, but she knew instantly she would never be able to do so. It angered her that she couldn't even get back at him that way, and when the time came, she marched onstage and sang with an energy that came only from spiteful anger.

"You were pretty feisty tonight," laughed one of the girls afterward. "I thought you were going to bite Catherine's head off in one scene!" A couple other girls laughed and added in their agreements. Such comments might have normally made her embarrassed or sheepish, but she felt nothing for them that evening. There were bigger problems than the cast snickering at her. Christine forced a laugh, grabbed her things, and bid farewell to the girls before hurrying out the back door.

The sight of Erik standing there by the black car actually made her pause for a moment to take a deep breath of resolve. He was going to take her back to Nadir's, give her a pat on the head and send her inside. _Run along now, little Christine. Don't annoy me anymore. _

_Well, maybe I like it there! _she thought to herself as she slid into the car. _Maybe I actually _like _staying with Nadir! So there. _

"I have never seen mourning done so angrily," Erik commented on the drive, the first words exchanged between them. "You showed a side to your character that I had not considered before…"

He was mocking her. Out of all the things, _mocking _her.

She refused to rise to his bait, to give any indication of hearing him, and she remained mute, staring out of her window with her arms folded, wanting nothing more than for him to kiss her and apologize.

"Your first solo was flat," he then said. "Particularly that A."

She ignored him.

The car pulled up next to Nadir's apartment after several more minutes of silence, and Christine glanced over, unable to help herself. He was staring at her, his eyes blank, unreadable.

With a pitiful, girlish whimper, she left the car, slamming the door shut behind her and running into the apartment building. Mr. Khan was watching a black and white movie when she entered, and he stood, pausing it as she shut the door and wiped away her unshed tears.

"You're back early," he said.

"What?" she said, hurriedly gulping away the urge to cry some more. "My show always gets done around this time."

"Oh, I had thought...Erik made it sound like you two were going to be out late."

"What did he say?" she asked before she could stop herself.

"Just that you liked walking in the park," Mr. Khan said. "But I guess I assumed wrong."

Christine felt a little sick. Had he actually wanted to take her walking? Then why hadn't he? He hadn't seemed in a _walking _mood. He hadn't even said _Hello _when she had approached him.

But then again, neither had she.

"Are you tired?" Nadir said. "I can turn the television down or shut it off, if you'd like."

"What're you watching?" she asked. It had been ages since she had seen a movie, and she looked at the screen with some curiosity.

"Oh, nothing," Mr. Khan said with an embarrassed-sounding laugh. "Just an old film noir. I grew up watching these. I don't know if you'd like it…"

For some bizarre, stupid reason, the idea of Mr. Khan growing up watching movies was baffling. He had always been so...well. _There_. Like a figure that only existed in her present. But that was stupid. Of course he had a past. He had a life outside of her own little world with Erik. Then she suddenly felt very guilty and selfish for never having thought of that before.

"Can I watch it with you?" she said.

"If...you'd like to," Nadir replied hesitantly. "It might be a little boring to you. Or silly."

"I wouldn't think that!" she said earnestly, sitting down on the couch. "I grew up watching old musicals. Nothing is silly to me."

After a moment, he sat as well and pressed play. It was in the middle of the movie, and Nadir quickly explained the plot. Something about a murder and the main character was the suspect and the pretty lady was going to help him find an alibi...They watched silently for a long while. Christine let the show numb her emotions, glad for the escape. It felt good to get caught up in other people's problems, even if they were fake people on the television. She didn't want to be hurt or angry or guilty anymore.

The climax of the movie came, and Christine watched as the woman—Nadir had called her the _femme fatale_—grabbed a gun and pointed it at the man. Then she fired two shots. Christine winced. Gunshots had become all too real for her.

The main character died dramatically, and the orchestration swelled in response. The movie ended as two side characters discussed the murder and wrapped up a few loose ends of the plot.

"Thanks for letting me watch," she said as the screen went black. "Have a nice night."

She slept deeply, exhausted by her performance and by staying up so late with Nadir, and again was woken by the rays of the sun blinking at her cheerily. If only Erik was there with her...the morning sun on his awful face...He'd probably grouch at it and make some half-joking, self-deprecating comment about how the sunlight only illuminated his "handsome" features.

Nadir gave her an egg and some toast for breakfast, and she thanked him demurely before eating, grateful that he made no comment about her dramatic exclamation from the day before that she was going to starve herself to death. She was hungry, and the food tasted good.

"Are you feeling better today?" he asked, not unkindly.

She shrugged. "I don't know how I feel." There was a pause, and then she asked quietly, poking at the runny yellow yolk, "Do you really think Erik was going to take me out last night?"

"I don't know," Mr. Khan said. "That's what I had assumed."

Maybe he hadn't because she had been so unfriendly, so cold and distant to him. Or maybe he really hadn't been planning on taking her. Still, she felt a stab of guilt, and not for the first time since being at Nadir's.

Was she really being childish and immature about it all? Erik said she needed to stay with Nadir just for "a little while," but _why? _Why wouldn't he let her help? What was so secret that she wasn't even allowed to be in the house with him? And the fact that he had sent her away, had quickly dumped her into Nadir's hands without any explanation, like some little girl or some pet, was also painful. She wasn't five years old anymore.

It hurt to think that after all they had been through and said to each other, he still would not trust her. He would not explain things to her or let her help. Did he still think she needed to be taken care of? That she was the same person she had been two years ago, lost and confused and depressed?

She spent most of the day quiet, thinking, trying to understand. After lunch, she rifled around the suitcase to see what other clothes he had packed for her and was surprised to pull out the framed picture of their wedding. It had been wrapped up in one of her sweaters to protect it. Sitting on the bed, she stared at the picture, at the rare content and happiness in Erik's eyes. If he really loved her that much, why would he send her away?

She put the frame on the battered chest of drawers and then looked at the pile in the corner. To her surprise, she realized that it actually was a bunch of instrument cases, all piled together neatly. She went over and knelt down, unclasping one and opening it to reveal a beautiful viola. She touched it lightly, plucking one of the strings. Carefully shifting them around and ensuring that none were squished or fell, she looked through them all. There was the viola, a cello, a classical guitar, and a weird-looking stringed instrument she couldn't name. It was sort of like a guitar, but the neck was long and thin, and the body was almost round. Weren't they called lutes or something? She couldn't remember, and she put it back carefully before getting up to find Mr. Khan.

"I didn't know you played all those instruments!" she said, finding him at a desk with a bunch of paperwork.

"What? Oh, those aren't mine," he said. "Those are Erik's. They were kept at his other apartments. When he sold them, he was going to get rid of all the instruments, but I kept them instead. He'll want them back eventually."

She went back to the room and spent a while looking at the viola again, wondering and thinking. Erik had never told her he played so _many _instruments...

Most of the anger was gone when the time came to perform again that night. Mostly she just felt...confused. And hurt. When the show was over, she lingered a little longer than usual, talking with the girls in the dressing room, trying to distract herself again by listening to other people's lives and problems. One girl was talking about her family moving to another state, and another was having problems with her boyfriend. All simple, normal things. Mr. Hoffmann found her then and talked to her once again about his offer for her to be in his upcoming shows. She nodded blankly and gave noncommittal answers as best she could.

Finally, she left the theater, making her way down the block to the familiar black car. Erik was waiting, and she approached, wishing that it was a normal evening and that they could just go back to the Opera House and pretend like the past two days had never happened.

"Mr. Hoffmann keeps asking me to do that Mozart show," she said after a while. "I don't remember the title...Something _in Alba_." The silence was overwhelming, but she didn't know what else to say to him. _Why? I'm sorry. Please take me home. Touch me. Don't make me go back there…_

"No," Erik replied.

"But I would play the lead," she protested. "It would be fun. And it's the only offer I've had!"

"You are not ready," he said shortly, his narrowed eyes making no room for argument. "Your coloratura is still weak. You could not do the role justice."

"Fine," she said, scowling and folding her arms, slumping back in the seat. "I'll just sing at weddings and be a lyric soprano forever, then."

"Stop being ridiculous," he snapped. "We will continue to work on your progression as a coloratura. Too much too soon will do nothing but strain and damage your voice. There are plenty of other options for you in the meantime." He scoffed. "Besides, Richard Hoffmann has made a disgusting spectacle of this production. This will be your first and last time singing in anything he touches."

She stared at the window, her mood sinking lower as she realized they were headed back to Nadir's apartment. She wanted to ask how much longer she would have to stay, but she kept her lips pressed tight together.

This was a wall she had helped him build, and she suddenly realized why he never seemed to be able to break them down on his own.


	11. Chapter 11

**Just wanted to thank you guys (and in particular gravity01) for the awesome, insightful reviews! Please enjoy!**

* * *

><p>There was one nice thing about staying with Nadir, Christine decided as she lathered shampoo into her hair and let the steam fill up the small bathroom. She was able to sing any song she wanted without getting eyes rolled at her or exasperated sighs. Old jazz songs (not that Erik minded jazz, but he had told her she did not have an inkling of talent for that style), folk music, musicals, classic rock, famous pop songs...Everything was available to her now, and she sang freely. Of course Erik hadn't ever (or would ever) stopped her from singing any of it, but he always made it a point to get out of earshot whenever she felt the urge to sing a song that had ever been popular on the radio in the past half century. It was nice and refreshing to feel...well, young again as she sang in the shower, even trying out a few silly dance moves that she had always felt a little too sheepish to do in Erik's house. She was only twenty-two after all, still <em>young<em> by most standards.

And she was feeling especially free that morning because Nadir had gone out on some errands that he had said would take a couple hours. So she had reign of the apartment, and she was taking advantage of the fact.

Mr. Khan was a good host in every sense of the word. After a while, she had calmed down enough not to be angry with him, because it probably wasn't really his fault that she was here in the first place. More likely than not, he was just doing Erik a favor as a friend, and so Christine allowed the lingering, resentful feelings to slide away. Nadir kept a clean house, and she tried to help as much as she could, not wanting to be a burden. He had also revealed himself to be an excellent cook, and she was unbelievably grateful for all the meals he provided her with. She hoped Erik was eating…

Christine sighed a little and rinsed off, thinking of her situation. There still seemed to be a wall between them. She had been with Nadir over a week, but the distance that that had created between her and Erik was troubling. Although it still hurt, she had decided to wait at Nadir's. If Erik really needed her here, she would wait. And then...hopefully when she went back, he would explain what he had done.

He still wouldn't tell her anything. The most she saw of him was during the short drive from the theater to Nadir's apartments, and even though they talked sometimes, it was never about anything important. Never anything to try to chink or crack the layer between them.

Her show was ending next week, and she was nervous about what would happen afterward. She had turned down Mr. Hoffmann's offer of playing the lead in his upcoming show, even as his offers began to get a little wilder and more ridiculous, and she hoped he hadn't been too offended. _Prométhée _was limping to an end, though she still managed to get applause and glowing reviews from the press. It was flattering and embarrassing, especially knowing just how hard the cast and crew worked on the show and she was apparently the only one reaping any recognition or reward.

Although she loved the performing, she was beginning to feel that it was time for the show to be over. The only question was what to do afterward. Would she still be here? Did Erik have something in mind for her?

Stepping out of the shower, she grabbed a towel and rubbed her hair, humming and enjoying the sweltering heat of the bathroom. It was nice to have a big mirror again, and she wiped a clear patch in the steam, examining herself critically for a few minutes. To her annoyance, the weight she had lost from her diet had been most manifest in her face and neck and not in her stomach and thighs like she had hoped. It made her look sick. Nadir's cooking had helped with that, however, and her face looked a little fuller. She would have to make a better effort with Erik once she went back with him. Over the past week, she had felt much more energized, and she hoped that the energy would last when she returned.

As she stood there, she heard a soft _thud _come from the front room, and she jumped, wrapping the towel around herself instantly. She was quiet a for a minute and then crept over to the door, opening it just a crack.

"Mr. Khan?" she called out hesitantly.

There was silence, and she opened the door wider to look down the short hallway. No one in sight, she stepped out and went to peer in the front room. It was empty as well, and she shrugged in confusion until there was a noise behind her. Heart racing, she whirled around, half-expecting to see Erik and half-expecting to see Nadir.

When it turned out to be neither of them, she shrieked and took a step back in surprise.

"Who are you?" she said. She would have yelled or screamed for help normally, but the intruder looked to be no more than twelve years old. He was sitting at the old kitchen table, eating cookies out of a package, watching her with wide brown eyes.

"I'm Heydar," he said calmly, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to be sitting there at the table while Christine stood there in a towel, her hair dripping onto the carpet.

"What are you doing here? Who let you in?"

He shrugged, helping himself to another cookie. "The door was unlocked."

"Well—well, even if Nadir forgot to lock it, you shouldn't walk into people's homes!" Christine stammered.

"But I always come here," the boy said, looking far more interested in the cookies than in the conversation. "_Agha _Khan always lets me in."

"Well, Mr. Khan isn't here right now," Christine said. "He left to run some errands a couple hours ago."

Heydar looked at his plastic blue wristwatch. "He'll be back soon, I think." Then he looked at Christine again and said slyly, his voice gleeful, "Are you _Agha _Khan's girlfriend?"

"No!" Christine said immediately, blushing to her roots and once more painfully conscious of the fact that she was in nothing but a towel. She inched toward the hallway. "I'm just his friend."

"But you're a girl," he pointed out.

"So?" she said. "We're just friends. Besides, I'm married to someone else."

"Then why are you here showering at _Agha _Khan's house?"

Christine worked her mouth furiously, unbelieving that she was having this conversation with a little boy. Just as she was about to say something, the door opened, and Nadir walked in, stopping short at the sight. Christine's face felt like it was going to burst into flames.

"Oh," he said, looking between the both of them in confusion.

"I came out because I heard a noise," Christine tried to explain hurriedly. "I didn't know what it was. Then I found…" She looked toward Heydar, who had turned his attention back to the cookies. Nadir frowned and walked over, taking the package away and putting it onto a high shelf out of reach.

"You'll get sick and spoil your appetite," Nadir said. Heydar looked sheepish and shrugged.

Christine took the opportunity to sneak down the hallway, muttering about her clothes, and she dashed to the bedroom and shut the door quickly.

"How humiliating," she groaned, flopping onto the bed. She looked over to the wedding picture. Erik probably would have laughed at her...that is, if he didn't threaten Nadir first for even looking at her in a towel.

She dressed and spent a while trying to talk herself out of feeling embarrassed, but when she left the room sometime later, she still felt a little warm around her cheeks.

Mr. Khan and Heydar were sitting at the table, a few books spread out in front of them, and they were conversing in what she could only assume to be Persian (when she had asked Erik, he had told her that the language he spoke in Iran was Persian). It was a poetic, lilting, guttural, beautiful language, and she wanted to sit down and just listen for a while, but Nadir instantly switched over to English the moment he saw she was in the room.

"I'm sorry!" she said quickly. "You don't have to speak English on my account."

"No, it's fine," Nadir said. "It wouldn't be very polite to speak something you don't understand."

Heydar looked at her and then said something to Mr. Khan in fast, fluent Persian. Nadir frowned again.

"That's Christine," he said in pointed English. "She is the wife of a friend of mine. She's staying here for a few days while her husband is out of town. That's all. Now, do you need help on this biology project, or do you need to go help your mother?"

Heydar looked abashed and quickly turned to his books. For the next while, they discussed the food chain and its levels, and Nadir taught and explained things patiently, firm when Heydar's attention wandered but fair and praising when he worked hard. At the end of the lesson, Nadir allowed him to have two more cookies, and Heydar slipped out the door with a quick thanks and one last curious look at Christine.

Mr. Khan stood as well, putting a hand to his back as he did so and laughing a little. "You've probably just made me the new scandal of the building."

Christine put a hand to her mouth. "Did I? I'm so sorry! I feel so stupid. I...I didn't even realize—"

"No, it's fine," Nadir said, shaking his head and looking at her with a small smile. "Heydar is known for exaggerating things. I doubt he'll be taken seriously."

"Is he related to you?" Christine asked.

"Just a neighbor boy," Nadir said, clearing the table. "He needs a little extra help in some areas of school."

"That's really nice of you to help him," Christine said. "Are you a tutor?"

"No," he said with another small laugh. "I don't have the patience for that many kids. Just Heydar for now. His father died a couple years ago, and he needs a fa—" Nadir cut himself off suddenly, pausing for a moment before continuing, "Anyway, the family just needs some help, especially as Heydar is the oldest."

"Still, that is really nice of you," she repeated. "Did you used to teach?"

"I was actually a chemical engineer when I was still working," he said. "But I retired early and got bored the day after I stopped, so I do a lot of freelance translation work now."

Christine realized again just how little she actually knew about Mr. Khan. After calling him her friend...and she was just now finding out what he had done for a living! Not for the first time, she berated herself for being such a horrible friend.

"Do you have kids, Nadir?" she then asked curiously.

By his heavy pause, she realized she had suddenly stumbled across forbidden territory.

"Oh—no," she said quickly, stutteringly. "You don't have to—I'm sorry, I was just wondering. You don't have to tell me anything."

"It's fine, Christine," he said, leaving the kitchen to sit next to her. "It was a long time ago." He pulled out his wallet and then fished out two small pictures to hand over to her. One was of an incredibly beautiful woman, with dark skin and thick eyebrows and large, intelligent eyes, smiling shyly at the camera. The other was of a skinny young boy, the picture grainy and worn. The boy was grinning happily, standing in a yard in front of a house.

"I have more pictures in storage, but those should be fine," he said quietly. "My son died just after he turned eight. Erik actually knew him…" He was quiet for a while, and Christine knew better than to speak. She let him sort through memories and deal with them as they came. "He was a good boy, very smart. He got sick one winter and...well, never got better. Right after that was when Erik went to prison."

Christine swallowed harshly. Why did the past always have to be full of such bad memories? Erik's past had been painful to hear. And now Nadir's.

"My wife, Vashti, just sort of wasted away after that. She died two years later. And then…" He sighed a little. "I had nothing, really."

"So you helped Erik escape," she said, looking at the picture of his wife again. There seemed to be so much life there in her dark eyes…

"I believed him innocent at the time he was arrested, but I couldn't do anything about it, not with my son less than a year dead and my wife…" He took the pictures back and put them into his wallet again. "Once they were both gone, there was nothing more to lose."

She almost teared up, but she blinked them back, not wanting to become an emotional, blubbering wreck when he was so somber about it. Still sad, still in unbelievable pain, but his eyes were dry. Instead, she put a hand over his warm one.

"I'm really sorry," she said quietly. "I can't even imagine what it must have been like."

He gave an awkward smile and patted her hand clumsily before standing, signaling the end of the soft, revealing conversation.

"It was a long time ago," he said again. "Now, if you want, I can show you how to make that saffron rice dish you said you liked."

She agreed, feeling it would be rude if she refused, and she helped as best she could while he tried to teach her a bit of Persian at her request. She was awful at it, just as she was with Russian, and the guttural sounds were hard for her to imitate.

"Maybe the only phrase you should learn is _Nemidanam_," he said, laughing at the weird choking sound she had just made as she tried to copy something he had just said.

"What does that mean?"

"'I don't know.'"

She laughed.

* * *

><p>All she wanted was to talk to him again.<p>

So why did it feel so hard to open her mouth?

She slid into the car, and Erik shut the door behind her before going to his own side, a silent routine they had followed religiously for the past week. Any talk was usually about her singing or some technicality that needed to be said, never about the fact that they hadn't touched in a week...She missed him.

It wasn't just the physical aspect of it all. She knew that for Erik, touch and intimacy were closely tied to his trust and his vulnerability. He usually did not touch her if he did not feel open and comfortable with her. And by the way he was looking out of the window with his hands pulled into himself, it was obvious what he felt toward her at the moment.

It still hurt that he had dropped her off with Nadir and left her, but she could see that her reaction and coldness to him had affected him a lot more than she had anticipated. The guilt came then, the remembrance that she needed to be conscious about how she treated him and what she said. Touch, words, expressions...everything was important to him. And she had pushed him away with everything.

She felt like a failure of a wife.

_But it didn't have to be like this!_ He could have just as easily taken her home once he realized how strenuous this was. She felt powerless; he was in control of the situation, and for some reason he wordlessly insisted that it be miserable.

They were nearing Nadir's apartment, and she felt her heart hammering in her chest. She needed to say something before the car stopped. Anything. She couldn't leave him sitting silently in the car for one more night. Maybe if they talked a bit about something other than her performances...

"Nadir taught me some Persian," she said suddenly.

"Ah," he said, his tone even.

"It's really hard," she said. "I'm impressed you learned. It was something like..._Menidaram_. Wait, no, that's not right. _Nenidaran? _Oh...I don't remember anymore..."

"_Nemidanam_," he supplied.

"Yeah, that," she babbled. "And yesterday he showed me how to make these really good, weird little rice cookies. I need to get the recipe from him. He said his wife used to make them all the time."

"He told you about Vashti?" Erik said sharply, looking at her.

"Yes," she said slowly. "And his son...Is that okay? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, no," he said, almost distractedly, looking back out the window. "He does not tell many people of his family…"

"I feel so bad for him," she said. "Poor Nadir. He's still so sad. It's obvious."

He didn't reply, so she continued, wanting to fill up the silence with whatever she could think of, hoping it would work:

"Did you know that Nadir's helping this little neighbor kid of his with his schoolwork? I think that's so nice of him. He's not even getting paid or anything, he just does it in his free time to help the family. And then today Nadir said that he's coming to closing night! I told him not to waste his money on another ticket, but he said I was good enough to see at least two times, which was nice of him to say."

The car pulled around the corner, and she could see Nadir's apartment complex up on the righthand side.

"I wonder if he's watching a movie," she said, craning her head to look up to the second floor windows. "Did you know he likes film noirs?"

"No," Erik said, getting out of the car to open her door for her. She climbed out and was about to wish him a dejected goodnight when his voice hissed to her, awful and icy: "But I am so _pleased _to hear that you are having such a _delightful _time with Nadir. What a relief to know that you are enjoying yourself immensely. I hope you have a _wonderful _evening with him, then, my dear."

Before she could even try to protest, he was in the car, and it was driving away. She stared after it for a moment, feeling an insane urge to chase it down, but in the end she made her way up to Nadir's apartment and headed straight for the bedroom, falling onto the bed and pressing her face into the pillow, resisting the urge to break down into sobs again. She hadn't meant for it to sound that way...That she was having the time of her life with Nadir—without _him_. But it didn't matter anymore what she meant. He understood it in the way that he wanted to, and she would have to wait until tomorrow night to try to repair the damage. If she could. If he would let her.

After breakfast the next day, she didn't feel like getting up and out of the room, so she lay on the small bed and stared at the picture on the dresser, feeling miserable. Nadir had gone out, and she didn't expect him back until well after lunch. So she was all alone. Again.

She had tried to start breaking down the wall between them, but she had botched her attempt, and in response he had reinforced the cracks and built it even higher. It was discouraging. And annoying. Could she never do anything right? How long were they to remain in this awful limbo? And how long did she have to stay at Nadir's? Maybe if she got more than ten minutes a day with Erik, she could make more progress. But all those ten minutes seemed to do was push them further apart.

_Communication_. Wasn't that something she had thought about early on in their marriage? Where had it all gone?

Why was he doing this to them? Why was he keeping them apart? In her dark thoughts, in ideas she didn't want to consciously spell out, she had a horrific fear that he was doing something...bad. Drugs. Drinking.

_Killing. _

What would she do if it was true? How could she handle it? _Could _she? That stuff was in Erik's past, so she had been able to sort of happily forget about it as best she could. But what if it was in his present? What would she do?

_Please stop doing drugs, Erik. Please stop drinking. Please stop killing people. _

Could she even forgive him this time? Sometimes she worried that she had forgiven him of too much. Three years ago, she never would have even considered forgiving someone who had murdered people. Now...she was married to the _Phantom_.

It was a dark thought she never liked to dwell on. The Phantom and Erik always seemed to be two different people. But sometimes, late at night or in a deep reverie, she would suddenly remember that Erik _had _been the Phantom. He was not above violence. Or murder. Or blackmail. Or arson. Or kidnapping. When those thoughts came, she hastily pushed them aside.

Was something wrong with her that she forced herself to be so willfully-ignorant and try to pretend that her husband's past was not full of blood and horror? Sometimes she wondered if she should go back to the psychiatrist.

As she lay there miserably, she heard the door open and shut loudly, and she didn't give it much thought until there were four loud, insistent knocks on her door.

"Christine?" Nadir sounded stressed.

She got up and opened the door. "Yeah? Are you okay, Nadir?"

He didn't look okay. "Gather your things," he said shortly, pointing to the open suitcase. "It's time for you to go back."


End file.
